


but not for spring to well up

by tookumade



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Break Up, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Inspired by Stray Italian Greyhound (Vienna Teng), M/M, Magical Realism, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tookumade/pseuds/tookumade
Summary: Miya BrothersSellers & Buyers of Antiques & CuriositiesSuna Rintarou squints at the small sign attached to the front door of the brick shopfront.He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Something flashier? More brass? The Miya brothers could do with a pot plant out the front. The shopfront has one single large window that’s covered by a plain white curtain, so maybe they could open that up and have some of their antiques and such on display so people get an idea of what they buy and sell. Maybe a paint job for the door, which is the most boring brown Suna has ever seen. There is nothing he can say about it—it’s not nice nor ugly, it’s justboring.Or, maybe Suna could stop giving any more of a damn about this shopfront and just get his appointment over and done with.After ending a relationship with a fiancé, Suna returns home and tries to heal from heartbreak. Here, he finds friends in the form of the Miya brothers, and learns patience, forgiveness, and what happiness means to him.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 236
Kudos: 1150





	but not for spring to well up

**Author's Note:**

> Vienna Teng's _Stray Italian Greyhound_ , but make it SunaOsa

_what do i do_  
_with a love that won’t sit still?_

* * *

**_Miya Brothers_ **  
_Sellers & Buyers  
_ _of Antiques & Curiosities_

  
Suna Rintarou squints at the small sign attached to the front door of the brick shopfront. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Something flashier? More brass? The Miya brothers could do with a pot plant out the front. The shopfront has one single large window that’s covered by a plain white curtain, so maybe they could open that up and have some of their antiques and such on display so people get an idea of what they buy and sell. Maybe a paint job for the door, which is the most boring brown Suna has ever seen. There is nothing he can say about it—it’s not nice nor ugly, it’s just _boring_.

Or, maybe Suna could stop giving any more of a damn about this shopfront and just get his appointment over and done with.

He straightens up, takes a deep breath, and his hand tightens around the strap of the large tote-bag he is holding. He takes the door handle and opens it. A small old gold bell attached to the door chimes. He steps into what looks like a reception area, plain and undecorated with a counter, a round table, and two worn beige sofas.

“Welcome,” a man’s voice greets him before he can see who it belongs to. There are hurried footsteps shuffling against the carpet and then a young man with greyish-brown hair and wearing a casual suit pokes his head into the reception area, a polite smile on his handsome face. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh…” Suna’s tote-bag weighs heavy in his hand and the urge to declare this a wrong turn wells up in his chest.

He doesn’t want to be here, and he knows that if he walks out, he’ll never come back. If he wants a sense of normality and stability in his life again, he can’t walk away. He has to stand firm, hand over the bag, lay out his collection and his memories of _him_ , and—

Finally—

Say goodbye—

Move on—

“I’m a little early,” he says with some difficulty, “but I have an appointment with Miya Osamu-san.”

“Oh!” The young man looks surprised, and Suna doesn’t blame him. A little early? _He’s twenty minutes early_. “That’s me. Then, you must be Suna Rintarou-sama.”

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time. I can come back,” says Suna. He won’t come back.

“No, no, it’s fine,” says Miya Osamu. “We can start early. Please follow me; we’ll take one of the back rooms so we can talk properly. Can I get you some tea or coffee?”

Suna shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

“Sure. This way, then.”

He leads Suna into an office lit with fluorescent lights, bare except for a round table in the middle that’s surrounded by four cushioned metal chairs. Miya and Suna take two of them opposite each other and Suna pulls a small plain brown wooden chest out of his tote-bag. 

“I’m not sure how you’d like me to…” He trails off and gestures to the chest. Miya nods and pulls on a pair of blue disposable gloves.

“I can take it from here,” he says. “You mentioned over the phone that you have several items and you wish to sell them all. We’ll go through them today and I’ll ask you about each one. After that, my brother and I will need one or two days to verify all the items and the information you have provided us before we can give you a price. Do you have somewhere to be today?”

“No, not really. I can stay until we’re done. Unless, you have more appointments?”

Miya shakes his head. “My schedule is clear for today, and my brother can handle anything else that comes up. Let’s begin, shall we? May I?”

Suna pushes the chest towards him and leans back in his chair. Miya opens it gingerly and peers inside at the assortment of boxes, bottles, and pouches. He pulls one such pouch out—pure black with a thin red drawstring—and from that, takes out a small bottle, seemingly empty if not for the glowing brightness inside, visible even in the room’s lights.

“Moonlight,” he says quietly. He’s not the only one—Suna had spoken up in unison. Miya meets his eyes and Suna holds his gaze for all of two seconds before looking back down at his lap.

“Marseille, France, July of 2016,” says Suna. The weather had been sweltering hot that evening, but he very clearly remembers the unbeatably delicious taste of the ice cream they had bought from a shop by the beach.

Miya jots down notes in his notebook and says, “And the black pouch? It’s—”

“Night, woven into black cotton. It was made over last summer, that’s why it’s slightly warm. The string is nothing special,” Suna answers. Miya looks like he might be trying to maintain a neutral expression, but Suna can see that he is actually quite impressed.

“The pouch alone is… Who made it?” Miya asks.

“I did,” Suna replies, and now, Miya stops trying to look neutral. “My grandma taught me how.”

“That’s a difficult craft, weaving night into fabrics.” 

Suna shrugs. “It’s not so bad once you’re used to it.”

Now, disbelief crosses Miya’s face before he hastily turns his attention to his notebook and jots more information down. He then places the bottle of moonlight back into the night-woven pouch and sets it aside. From the chest, he pulls out another much smaller bottle, only about the size of half his thumb and filled with dark red liquid. He holds it up to the light and squints at it.

“Mermaid’s blood. March of 2017, Okinawa,” Suna supplies. That had been a fun holiday. But he is not here to think about that today.

“Adult?”

“Young blood. Mermaid’s equivalent of a teenager. I helped her get back to sea when she’d been stranded by low tide, and as thanks, she gave me that.”

“Hm… if it’s from an adolescent, it won’t grant immortality to the drinker,” says Miya thoughtfully, carefully setting the bottle aside and writing in his notebook again. “But people will still pay a good price for the longevity it’ll grant instead.”

“Imagine spending money on that,” Suna mutters without thinking. Miya raises his head to look at him in surprise, and Suna flushes pink in the face and he folds his arms over his chest, shrinking back into his seat. 

“Are you sure I can’t offer you some refreshments, Suna-sama?” Miya asks, a delicate sort of tone in his voice that suggests something like… sympathy. Suna cringes and shakes his head.

“I’m fine. Sorry, please continue.”

With a nod, Miya takes out a small box and from it, pulls out a piece of shed snakeskin about the size of his open hand. It is unusually silky and moves like fabric, translucent and iridescent. 

“Snake spirit skin?”

“I met him in an abandoned shrine in Fukuoka, in September, 2018. He travels the country, selling medicines to spirits. We were waiting for the rain to stop and I shared some fried chicken with him, so he gave me that.” There had been a lot of arguments over that trip, and that mellow chance meeting with the snake spirit had been a welcome reprieve. He remembers it well, almost regretting his decision to sell the snakeskin, but if he wanted to move on…

Miya carefully places it back into its box and jots down more notes in his book. “And what does it do?”

“If the user puts it under their pillow for the night, it gives them dreamless sleep.”

“Dreamless? No dreams at all?”

“No dreams.”

“You’ve tried it for yourself?”

“I—” Several times. “Yes.” 

Miya nods again. They continue on. The kanji for _ocean_ , artistically written using a calligraphy brush by a fox spirit; the brush itself with its unusually soft bristles and unusually thin handle; a wooden bead bracelet with a single tiny gold rabbit that hopped from bead to bead at its leisure; another bottle of moonlight from Rosario, Argentina, cradled inside another night-woven pouch; a hairpin that was able to stop headaches; a piece of fine _kintsugi_ in the form of a rice bowl cracked and repaired with gold, only these cracks moved around like streams of water.

“And we’re not even halfway through.” Miya peers into the chest again. “You have an incredible collection, Suna-sama. Are you sure you’re willing to sell _all_ of these?”

“They’re not all magical,” says Suna. “I have some normal stuff too. Like…” His heart sinks when Miya holds up another box, longer and flatter this time, and opens it. “Those…”

“Watches?” Miya says, staring at the three watches laid flat inside it. “A Casio… a Citizen… a Hilfiger… Wait, there was…” He reaches into the chest containing everything again, pulls out another box—a black watch case, this time—and carefully opens it, and Suna can feel his heart sinking even further as Miya eyes the fourth watch nestled inside it.

“A Tag Heuer?” says Miya. This one is worth more than double of the other three watches put together, and Suna can see him process this. “New?”

 _I’ve literally never laid a finger on it,_ Suna wants to say. But he just nods instead.

“Can you tell me about these?” Miya picks up his pen again.

Suna clears his throat. “They were gifts. The Casio I received in January, 2016. I wore it almost every day for a year. The battery’s dead, now, though. Uh… I got the Citizen in 2017. Also wore it almost every day for a year. The Hilfiger was after that. I didn’t wear it as much. The Tag Heuer… I didn’t wear it at all.”

“And when did you receive the Tag Heuer?”

Suna looks down at his lap. “January, this year.”

Miya stops writing. “And the Citizen? 2017, you said.”

(“ _Why haven’t you been wearing the watches I got you?_ ”)

“January.”

“The, uh, Hilfiger, too?”

(“ _You used to wear them all the time_.”)

“Mm. January, 2018.”

“So… they were birthday gifts, then?”

(“ _Rintarou_.”)

Argument after argument; tense silences; the watch on his wrist feeling heavier and heavier each time; the ring on his finger feeling like—

There’s a dull _snap_ and Suna looks up to see Miya has closed the Tag Heuer’s watch case. His face is hard to read, and Suna finds himself unsure if that’s any better than all the people eyeing him with sympathy and pity mixed with a curiosity to know all the juicy details, just like the patrons at his family’s shop, and—

“Suna-sama—”

Apparently, that’s the extent of all he can take, because Suna stands up abruptly and says, “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. You can keep all those, I don’t care what you do with them. Thank you for your time.” And then, he’s out the door before Miya can even get out of his chair.

“Suna-sama?!” he hears Miya exclaiming behind him. “ _Suna-sama!_ Please wait a—”

But Suna is too fast, and he’s out of the store and running down the street in just a few breaths, ignoring the stares of people he passes by, ignoring Miya Osamu yelling his name after him. This isn’t the way he’d expected to leave his collection of memories behind, but maybe it was better this way, maybe it was better to wildly toss everything aside instead of gently dissecting them one by one.

He reaches the train station and heads straight to his platform. After today, complete embarrassment aside, he is never coming back to the Miyas’ store. He has no more need to do so.

* * *

_i just settled into the glass half-empty_  
_made myself at home_

* * *

Well, that’s what he’d thought. Hoped.

But an email from Miya Osamu the next morning throws his determination out the window.   


_To Suna-sama,_

_I can’t speak for other businesses in my line of work, but in my experience, old wounds are often re-opened when people come by our store._

_I am sorry for any distress you felt during our meeting. If you do not wish to proceed any further, please disregard this message._  
_Otherwise, I do still have questions about the items we didn’t get a chance to discuss. If you are willing, could I trouble you to stop by our store again? Or, we can continue emailing each other, if you would prefer that._

_Many thanks for your patience and understanding._

_Regards,_  
_Miya Osamu_

  
Suna flings his phone aside, buries his face in his pillow, and groans.

He could ignore this email. They could do whatever they wanted with his collection, and that was fine, he didn’t care, he didn’t want to go back, he didn’t—

“Rin-chan?” His mother knocks on his door. “Are you not feeling well?”

“No, I’m fine,” Suna calls back, hastily sitting up. “I just, uh, forgot something. I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

She slides the door to his room open and pokes her head in. “You came home late last night, Rin-chan. I didn’t even see you.”

That was on purpose. Suna had wanted some time before his parents asked him too many questions, so he’d meandered around window-shopping aimlessly before getting himself a late dinner.

“That’s because you always sleep early,” he says.

“It’s _because_ we have to wake up early to get the café ready for the day,” his mother replies. “How did your appointment with the Miya brothers go yesterday? With… Osamu-kun, wasn’t it?”

Suna sighs. “He, uh, wants me to go back to their store to discuss some more details.”

“Today?”

“No, I haven’t decided when I’ll go.” If he goes at all.

“Best to do it soon so you can get some money back on your things.”

“Mm… maybe…”

His mother tilts her head to the side and says gently, “You don’t have to help out at the café today, Rin-chan.”

Sympathy. Pity. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got nothing else to do. I’ll go get dressed and I’ll be right down,” says Suna.

“Your father’s got breakfast ready, so don’t take too long, all right?”

“Okay.”

His mother leaves his room. Suna flops back onto his futon and squints up at the ceiling.

Today, he’ll leave his room to brush his teeth, wash his face, and then get changed. He’ll wear his light blue kosode and dark grey hakama; a traditional get-up for a mostly traditional dessert café that his parents run. The tourists like it and Suna kind of likes showing off to them. After he gets dressed, he’ll go downstairs to eat breakfast with his parents, and then they’ll prepare the café to open at exactly eleven o'clock. Maybe today, they’ll get more tourists than friends of his parents who are keen to gossip about him when he’s still within earshot. Maybe the café will run out of dorayaki batter again, and he’ll have to use his broken English to explain. Maybe it’ll be busy enough that he doesn’t have much time to think about everything that had happened yesterday and the days before that.

Maybe he could just ignore Miya Osamu’s email.

* * *

He doesn’t. 

Because he realises that he wants closure, and dashing off like that was not closure.

The next day, he is in front of the Miyas' plain shopfront again, having emailed Miya Osamu back with an agreement for an appointment in the late morning. The bell chimes against the door as he opens it, signalling his entry. Today, he is twenty minutes early again, too.

Miya Osamu is behind the reception area’s counter. When he looks up at Suna, his face eases into a polite smile.

“Suna-sama,” he says. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Suna replies. “I’m sorry for how I behaved last time.” 

Miya shakes his head and his voice is kind when he says, “Like I said in my email: old wounds. I’ve seen it often enough. You aren’t the first, and I doubt you’ll be the last. But thank you for coming back here. Shall we continue from where we left off?”

 _No_ , Suna wants to say. Instead, he takes a deep breath and replies, “Sure.”

He follows Miya to the room that they had used last time. The chest and tote-bag Suna had left are still on the table.

“Please, take a seat,” says Miya, gesturing. “An old customer of ours dropped off some really nice green tea yesterday—can I brew you a cup?”

“I… yeah, that sounds good.”

“I’ll be just a moment.”

Miya leaves the room. As he waits, Suna picks out the items from the chest that he remembers discussing, including the watches, and sets them aside in a cluster. He’s absently watching a tiny wood-carved figure of a fox in the palm of his hand that stretches and rolls around leisurely, when Miya comes back carefully holding a large steaming teacup. Suna takes the fox and sets it back into the chest; as soon as it’s no longer in contact with his skin, the tiny fox goes still.

“Here,” Miya says as he sets the cup in front of Suna. “I don’t know the specifics, but it’s a green tea from Uji, and I personally enjoy it very much.”

“It smells really good,” says Suna, leaning in for a sniff. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Do let me know if you’d like more tea, Suna-sama.” Miya pulls on a pair of blue disposable gloves again and takes his seat in front of him, proper and polite, back straight, everything about him professional.

He probably acts this way towards all his customers, but Miya’s professionalism is… stifling. It reminds Suna uncomfortably of all the staff who had bowed extra low to him and were overly accommodating purely because of the company he had kept at the time.

“Call me Suna,” he says. “Just Suna. You don’t need to be so formal with me.”

Miya looks hesitant. “That’s…”

“I know I’m a customer, but I’d prefer if we weren’t so formal, to be honest,” Suna adds. “We’re about the same age. And you saw me bolting out in the middle of our conversation last time, so I think that gives you the right to be more casual.” 

A smile twitches at Miya’s mouth and he tries to fight it back. He looks a bit more relaxed, exhaling softly. Suna wonders if he’s imagining things as he feels the stifling tension in the room ease, too. “Then… call me Osamu. Most people do; it’s easier when talking to both me and my brother.”

“I heard you’re... twins?”

“Identical twins. We dyed our hair different colours to make it easier to tell us apart, but people confused us all the time when we didn’t. Shall we begin, Suna-sama?”

Suna raises his eyebrows at him. Osamu ducks his head and his smile is more genuine this time, and—damn, he has not just a handsome face, but a nice smile, too. To think, that there was someone else in the world with the same face…

“ _Suna_ ,” Osamu corrects himself. “I’ll get this started, then.” He pulls the chest towards him and peers in. Suna takes a sip of his tea and leans back in his chair.

“This tea is really nice, by the way.”

“Right? My brother usually doesn’t care much for tea, but even _he_ liked it.”

“Your brother is… Atsumu, right? It was on your business card.”

“Yeah, Atsumu. The less we talk about him, the less nauseous I am.”

Suna snorts violently, hastily setting his teacup down before he drops it. He isn’t sure if Osamu is joking or not, not helped by Osamu flashing him a grin before pulling out a small circular object from the chest.

“Okay, so this is… a compass?” He taps it lightly, squinting. “Is it broken?”

“No, it just always points east instead of north. It was given to me by a rabbit spirit; her clan made it. I met her in Nagasaki in September, 2018, not long after I got that piece of snake spirit skin.”

“A compass that points east…” Osamu scribbles into his notebook. “People are gonna get so lost with that… Why did she give it to you?”

“She was climbing a persimmon tree and got stuck, so I helped her get down and picked three persimmons for her. I told her I was trying to get to the station and took a wrong turn, so she insisted I take her compass. I mean, it was really nice of her, but… I had a smartphone…”

Osamu snickers. “Can you imagine rabbit spirits using smartphones? Setting up a twitter account? Or, even worse, Facebook.”

“They’d use twenty hashtags with every post…”

“And so many emojis.”

Next comes a box of fabric-like spider web from a spider spirit that had medicinal properties such as giving the user more energy, better metabolism, and healthier skin (“I— _what?_ ” “Don’t look at me. You really think I was going to say ‘no, thank you’ to a spider spirit?”); a small knife that didn’t blunt no matter how much it was used; the bottled song of a warbling white-eye bird; an unusually flat grey river stone that turned a reddish-brown colour when it was in the presence of sickness; a teacup saucer with a tree branch design that changed with the seasons. They keep going. Bottle after bottle; box after box; pouch after pouch. Suna asks for a refill of his tea twice, which Osamu cheerfully obliges. Patiently, he sifts through the entire chest, until finally, finally, finally, it is empty.

Osamu stares down at his notebook, tapping his pen against it in thought and occasionally flipping its pages. It’s hard to read the expression on his face.

“Do you ever get curious?” Suna asks, and Osamu’s eyes flicker up at him. “About the people who stop by. The stuff they bring.”

“Of course. But my experiences have taught me that it’s usually better not to ask more than I need to know.” Osamu drops his pen down and leans back in his chair and adds, “You really do have an incredible collection. My brother had a look after you left the other day, and he was really impressed. And he’s _never_ impressed. I should’ve asked earlier, but are you a collector?”

“Sort of,” says Suna vaguely. He doesn’t offer more than that.

“Usually sellers only have a few things to sell us at a time. You’ve shown us at least two month’s worth of items. Well… all right.” Osamu rotates his notebook and pushes it towards Suna. “These pages list all the items from the chest—a total of thirty-nine. I’ve got the night-woven pouches down as separate items. These four are the individual watches. If you’re satisfied I haven’t made any mistakes, please affix your signature seal at the bottom here.”

Suna scans the pages, hesitating over _Tag Heuer — unused_. Should he be selling it? Ah, hell, if he took the amount he would receive for it and then saved up money, then he could just buy it back again or buy another one and return it, or just hand over what it cost…

He takes a small wooden stamp from his pocket with the kanji characters he uses for ‘Rintarou’ carved into it and a round red ink pad. He inks the stamp and presses it carefully at the foot of the page of the notebook. Osamu takes the book back.

“Thank you very much. Then, we’re done for today, so now my brother and I will need to verify everything like I mentioned at the beginning. I’ll call you as soon as we’re done. It’s been a quiet week, so we shouldn’t take much longer than a day. Do you have any questions? Would you like more tea?”

“Ah, no, I’m good for tea,” says Suna. “And I don’t have any questions… oh, wait—do you have any lunch recommendations?”

“Oh!” Osamu sits up, an excited look in his eyes. “Always! Food is my _domain_. What do you feel like? Sushi? Korean, maybe? Ooh, there’s a nice Indian restaurant nearby. Or, maybe soup, or are you leaning towards rice? Something with lots of meat, or more on the vegetable side?”

Suna smiles. “Something warm. Something soupy. I’m not too fussed about more meat or more vegetables.”

“Hmm… there’s an udon restaurant a few minutes walk from here that’s my favourite. It’s super cheap and the side dishes are always really tasty.”

“Udon sounds good. Where is it?”

“When you leave here, go left, keep walking, make another left when you see the 7-Eleven at the corner, and it’ll be to your right with the string of pennants under the sign. It’s called Maruyama Udon. The soup’s the best, trust me on that.”

“I will,” says Suna.

They stand and Osamu walks him to the door, recommending some side dishes to go with the udon. It sounds like he’s listing everything though, so Suna’s probably fine with whatever he orders.

“Thank you for coming today. We’ll get in touch with you soon,” says Osamu, holding the door open for him, professional and polite. 

“See you,” says Suna. And then, after a moment of considering, looks up at him. “Just to put some of your curiosity to rest… he was my fiancé. Ex-fiancé. We broke things off. All these items are tied to him in one way or another, and this is my way of moving on.” 

“Ohh,” says Osamu, nodding in understanding. “I’m sorry.”

How much had Osamu seen in his line of work? Life, death, fond memories, painful memories, people moving on, stories to tell. There’s no pity in his voice. Sympathy, almost, but nothing more than that; an understanding that these sorts of things happen. It’s a nice sort of feeling, a nice sort of sound. Suna shrugs. “I’m not the first, I probably won’t be the last, right?”

Osamu’s face eases into a small smile. “That’s right,” he says. “Thank you for telling me. Enjoy your lunch.”

With a nod of goodbye, Suna steps out and makes a left. Osamu bows after him.

* * *

_Osamu,_

_That udon was the best I’ve ever had. Thanks for the recommendation._

_Suna_

* * *

_but you had to come along, didn’t you?_

* * *

The next day passes without a word from Osamu. Suna helps out at the café all day. He sets up an Instagram account for it and spends a bit too long getting the perfect display picture (a plate holding two of their skewers of dango on a table by their window) before uploading three photos of their other desserts. As he racks his brain for hashtags to use, he thinks of rabbit spirits getting their paws on smartphones, and he smiles to himself.

The next morning, at nine o’clock exactly, Osamu calls him.

“We’ve finished verifying your items, and everything’s fine,” he says. “When you have a moment, could you stop by the store again? We have our offer for you and paperwork to sign, or you can take back your items if you decide not to go ahead with it.”

Suna agrees to meet him at half past three after the café has closed, and promises, “I won’t be too early this time.”

His parents try to boot him upstairs to get changed at two o’clock but relent when Suna points out that he only needs to take the train for one station, and that it’s way too early. Eventually, nearing closing time and getting tired of his father repeatedly asking him whether he should be on his way yet, Suna goes upstairs, changes into casual clothes, and sets off.

He is calm the whole time that he makes his way to the Miyas’ store. Should he be feeling anxious or something? Will the offer be high enough? Can Osamu put a price on bottled birdsong, on young mermaid’s blood, on a fox spirit’s calligraphy? Did Suna care enough to bargain with them? He is about to let go of four years worth of memories. He supposes he is as ready as he’ll ever be.

The chime of the bell on the door signals Suna’s arrival. Osamu is at the reception’s counter again, and he smiles when Suna enters.

“Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” Suna looks around. “Is it always just you, here? You talk about your brother, but I’ve never seen him.”

“Like that’s a bad thing,” Osamu mutters. “He’s, uh, not so great with people, so I take on more of the customer service side of things, and he handles more of the technical and practical stuff like our verification processes and our pricing. He’s just gone to buy some more stationery. Anyway—would you like some tea? Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

Osamu leads him into the same office they had been using. All of Suna’s items are laid out neatly over one side of the table.

“Alllll right,” says Osamu as they sit. He slides a piece of paper forward and Suna notes that he’s wearing a pair of thin black leather gloves this time. “So, here is our offer for the lot—for all thirty-nine items. This part here is the break-down of the numbers.”

Suna leans over to stare at the piece of paper, mouth opening slightly in confusion.

“Are you… sure that’s right?” he murmurs. “That’s a lot of money.”

“I did say, didn’t I? You have an amazing collection. The watches are easier to put a price on, but for everything else? You can’t just get moving kintsugi or night-woven fabrics at any store. My brother and I are pretty keen on them.”

Suna tilts his head and eyes him with a small smile. “I have to admit, this isn’t what I expected. I kinda I figured you’d try to offer me really low prices and I’d have to haggle with you.” 

Osamu stifles a laugh. “I don’t know what you know of my line of work, but I like to think that I _do_ have a moral compass.”

Suna ducks his head. He clasps his hands together on the table top, squeezes them for a moment, and then says quietly, “Okay. Thank you.”

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“No questions. I’ll take your offer.”

Osamu’s voice slips back into his professional mode. “In that case, please have a read of the terms and conditions written here. There is a three-day cooling off period in case you change your mind, and once those three days are over, we will have the amount transferred to you within the next twenty-four hours. If everything looks good, please write your bank account details in this space here, and then stamp your signature seal here. I’ll make a photocopy of this, and that will be yours to keep for reference."

After consulting his phone to confirm his bank account details, Suna takes out his seal from his bag. He inks the stamp and his hand hovers over the section where he is to stamp his seal, and…

Perhaps he had hesitated for a little too long, because Osamu says gently, “We can extend the cooling-off period, if you’d like.”

Suna takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “No need.” And with that, he stamps his seal.

“And… that’s done!” says Osamu. “Thank you very much. Give me a minute, I’ll go make a photocopy of this.” 

He ducks back out. Suna stares at his collection of items on the table in the meantime, eyes tracing every detail, remembering the places he’d been, the arguments he’d had, the good memories that hurt to keep. Somehow, he feels lighter now, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He wonders if this is temporary, if it’ll come back to bite him, if he’ll regret it after it’s too late.

Osamu returns to the room and slides Suna his copy of the agreement. “After the cooling-off period has finished, I’ll give you a call to let you know that we’re transferring the payment over to you. And, of course, if you change your mind before the three days—”

“I won’t,” says Suna, folding the sheet up and tucking it into his pocket. 

“Any time you have more things you’d like to sell, please don’t hesitate to give me a call.” They stand. Osamu offers his hand and Suna shakes it. Osamu still hasn’t taken his gloves off. “Here is your bag back, and your chest, too.”

Suna collects both and they exit the room. He is finally leaving his collection behind. Like last time, Osamu walks him to the door, and when he opens it and Suna steps out, so does Osamu. Suna turns to look at him. There’s a gentle, curious smile on Osamu’s face, like he has a hundred thoughts firing around in his head and he can’t settle on one, but not in a way that bothers him. He is looking at Suna like he can read him like an open book, and maybe this should unnerve him, but somehow, it doesn’t.

“Thank you again for everything. Thanks for being so patient,” says Suna.

“Any time,” says Osamu quietly. “I hope you find the healing you’re searching for. Goodbye, Suna.”

And with that, he takes a step back and bows low, professional and polite. Suna turns and heads down the street, not looking back.

* * *

_i was ready for the downslide_  
_but not for spring to well up_

* * *

The three-day cooling-off period comes and goes without anything out of the ordinary happening. The café’s business is steady, with an even number of tourists, locals, and friends of Suna’s parents who are keen to get any lick of gossip they can about what happened for Suna to break up an engagement. His parents have been good about giving them just the bare bones of the story, but Suna can’t decide whether giving the gossipers the full story or only vague details is better—both make him feel anxious. 

Regardless, the moment he sees them approaching the café through the window, if he isn’t serving a customer and if his parents don’t grab him in time, Suna will hurry away to the back exit and hide somewhere for a minimum of forty minutes, because _jeez_ these people can talk for _so long._

The morning of the fourth day, Osamu calls him when Suna is in the middle of setting up some chairs for the café.

“I’m just letting you know that the cooling-off period is now over,” says Osamu. “We’ll be transferring the agreed payment to your bank account very shortly.”

“That’s great, thanks for—” At the sight of a middle-aged couple approaching the café door, Suna abruptly bolts out of main eating area and in the process, slams his knee against a nearby chair to a yelp of pain and unleashes a string of cussing, followed by his mother’s scandalised “ _Rintarou!_ ”

“What happened?” asks Osamu, alarmed.

“Haaah… chair got in my way. Hold on,” Suna whispers, scurrying towards the back when he hears the front door slide open. He slips out into the alleyway where he sinks onto an empty upturned crate and leans against the wall of the café, rubbing his knee. “ _Oww_ … Okay, I’m good. I’m just hiding.”

“ _Hiding?_ Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just hit my knee. It’s—well, my parents own a café that mostly sells traditional desserts. Since I broke up with my fiancé and moved back home, I’ve been helping out, but a lot of their friends keep stopping by and asking questions about what happened. I just can’t deal with them anymore, and I definitely can’t deal with one more person asking me if I want to date their single daughter now that I’m no longer engaged. So I’ve literally been running away and hiding whenever I see them coming. The café’s not even meant to be open for another two hours…” For a while, Osamu doesn’t say anything, but there’s a muffled sound over the phone, and Suna’s eyes narrow. “Are you _laughing?_ ”

“N-No,” says Osamu with obvious difficulty

“You’re laughing.”

“‘m not laughing.”

“This is _unbelievably_ unprofessional of you, Miya Osamu-san,” says Suna, deadpan.

“Swear ‘m not laughing.”

“Haven’t you had aunties and uncles gossip about you right in front of you before? How could you? I thought you’d be my ally.”

“I’m sorry, I have to go now,” Osamu gasps. “I hope your knee feels better soon.”

“Byeeee.”

And they hang up. 

Two days later, Suna receives the agreed upon amount for his items in his bank account, and he thinks that’s the end of that. He has no more reason to seek out the Miya brothers, doesn’t have any plans to buy antiques or curiosities from them, doesn’t really have anything he wants to sell from his own personal collection of items that don’t have strong emotional ties to his ex-fiancé. This was a done deal, a finished book, a closed door, and he could now start thinking about what he wanted to do with his future instead.

* * *

He believes this and mulls over it until one week later when he receives a phone call from Osamu again in the morning while he’s in the middle of mixing batter for the café’s dorayaki.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Osamu says with a tone of urgency in his voice, “but I have a favour to ask, and you’re the first person to come to mind.”

“Go on,” says Suna.

“We had a customer come in who sold us an inkstick—you know, like the ones used in calligraphy—but it’s made of night, and—”

“How does that work?”

“Oh, you need to grind it on an inkstone with freshwater that’s been exposed to open sunlight for several hours, like water directly from rivers or lakes. This stops the night from fading when the user writes with it and as a result you get a _really_ nice rich black ink. _But_ , because the inkstick itself is _completely_ made of night—you know, as opposed to night fabric, when it’s woven into something else—it can’t be exposed to light for too long or it’ll end up fading. The seller had some night fabric to wrap the inkstick in, but the fabric wasn’t made very well, and we didn’t realise how bad it was until the night started to fade _the day after_ we’d already transferred the money to the seller! So—”

“I have another piece of night fabric you can have. It’s like the other ones I’ve made, woven with black cotton. I’m a bit busy today, though. Can you stop by our café to pick it up?”

Osamu makes a strangled sound of surprise. “I’m… I—of course, we’ll pay you for th—”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” says Suna nonchalantly. “I’ll go find it. Come by in about half an hour. I’ll text you the address.”

“But—I mean, sure, but I’m—”

“Cool, see you.”

And Suna hangs up.

“Friend of yours?” his father asks from the other side of the kitchen.

“Not really… he’s one of the Miya brothers. From that antiques store I went to?” Suna sets down his mixing bowl and takes off his apron. “I’ll be right back.”

He texts the café address to Osamu, heads upstairs to his room, and from a box of assorted items, locates the night fabric about the size of three of his hand spans. This one is one of his more patient pieces, woven over a fortnight. There’s nothing poetic about it—he had simply begun weaving it one day because he’d drunk coffee late at night and couldn’t fall asleep, and then felt like it was too much of a waste if he stopped.

Osamu arrives exactly thirty minutes later, knocking on the front door. Suna slides it open.

“Hey, come on in.”

“I’m sorry to impose so suddenly,” says Osamu, entering the café. “I’ve got the inkstick with me. We didn’t—ohh, _man_ , that smells _good_.”

“That’s dorayaki. I don’t know why we’re cooking so early, though. We haven’t even opened yet…” Suna glances up towards the kitchen and sees his parents peeking out in a manner resembling two curious owls. He fights back a sigh. “These are my parents. This is Miya Osamu from th—”

“ _Hello_ , it’s _very_ nice to meet you!” His mother hurries out, beaming. “I’m Rintarou’s mother. My _goodness_ , you’re a handsome one! Look at you!”

“Okay, all right,” says Suna loudly. “Osamu’s just picking up a—”

“Welcome, Osamu-kun!” Now, his father dashes towards them holding a small plate with two hot fresh dorayaki on it. “Won’t you sit down and have a snack? We’re quite famous for our dorayaki, you know!”

“We’re famous for our _dango_ ,” Suna hisses indignantly. “That’s why they’re our Instagram icon! I spent _ages_ picking that photo out!”

“That is _so_ kind of you,” says Osamu earnestly, “but I—”

“No ‘but’s!” says Suna’s mother. “Your house isn’t on fire, is it? You’ve travelled all this way.”

“Oh, it’s just one train stop—”

“Would you like some roasted tea, too?” asks his father. His mother gives a happy little gasp and returns to the kitchen.

“ _We’re still setting up,_ ” Suna whispers loudly. But his father grabs Osamu’s elbow and manhandles him over to a table near the window, setting the plate of dorayaki before him. 

“Eat up, eat up!” he says. “This is on the house!”

Osamu looks alarmed. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possib—”

“Oh, please, you’ve helped Rintarou out so much! Take your time and let us know if you’d like seconds, all right?” And without giving Osamu the time to reply, he returns to the kitchen too. He neatly dodges Suna’s mother, who comes half-running out with a teacup in her hands, which she also places in front of Osamu.

“This tea is a personal favourite of mine,” she says, beaming at him. “Take your time, Osamu-kun!” And she hurries back again before Osamu can even utter a thanks.

Suna pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a pained sort of sound, but Osamu is staring at his dorayaki with barely suppressed delight.

“Anyway,” says Suna. He sets a bag in front of him. “That’s the night fabric.”

“Oh!” Osamu hastily takes it and pulls out the cool night fabric, spreading it on the table beside the plate of dorayaki, and Suna finally notices that he’s wearing his leather gloves again. Osamu sighs in something like reverence. “Yeah, this is perfect. Jeez, you’re _good_. This is a thousand times better than the crap we got.” From his bag, he pulls out a small rectangular box, and from the box is another bundle of black fabric which he unwraps to reveal a black inkstick. Suna barely glimpses the pattern of rolling black clouds on the sides before Osamu carefully wraps it back up in the night fabric Suna had given him. He gives another sigh, this time of relief, and sets it back into the box, closing it. “You really saved us. Thank you.”

“No problem. Well, you heard my parents: enjoy. I need to get back to—” Suna turns but stops when Osamu grabs his sleeve.

“I _said_ we’d pay you for the night fabric,” says Osamu determinedly.

“And I said not to worry about it.”

“I can’t just take something so valuable!”

“It’s not. I’ve had it sitting around for the past… I dunno, two years or so? And I haven’t used it. It’s fine, seriously.”

“The past—… _two years?_ ”

“Yeah?”

Osamu is staring at him like he’s sprouted another head. “I’ve never seen night fabric last longer than a year and a half.”

“Maybe I got lucky? Maybe the ones you’ve seen just weren’t very good?” Suna shrugs helplessly and points to his dorayaki. “Anyway, better eat up or they’ll get cold. Just holler if you need anything.” And he, too, returns to the kitchen.

After several minutes, Suna peeks out again. He can see that Osamu’s plate is empty, his gloves are lying beside it, and he is staring out the window, lost in thought. Feeling a nudge in his side, he turns to see his mother handing him a kettle and nodding her head pointedly at Osamu. Suna resists the urge to roll his eyes and heads back out.

“More tea?” he asks. Osamu starts and looks at him.

“Oh… no, thank you. I have to get back to the store.”

“How was the dorayaki?”

“ _Very_ good,” says Osamu, nodding. “If you say it’s not actually your specialty, then I definitely have to come back to try some dango soon.”

“You’re always welcome. I don’t remember the last time my parents got so excited to see me inviting a friend over.”

At this, Osamu’s face softens into a mystified sort of look, and Suna hastily averts his gaze. ‘Friend’ might be too much too quickly; the word had kind of just slipped out.

“Anyway, I’m just gonna… clear these.” He takes his dishware and brings them and the kettle into the kitchen. Collecting his bag and pulling on his gloves again, Osamu follows Suna to thank his parents and tell them that it was the best dorayaki he has ever eaten, and that he would definitely return soon. They rush back out to fuss over him again and it takes him almost ten minutes before he is finally able to leave the store. Suna sees him out.

“Thank you again for the night fabric,” says Osamu, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “But I _will_ pay you back.”

“Ominous.”

“It’s my job.”

“To be ominous?”

“Sure.”

And with a grin, Osamu waves, turns, and makes his way down the street. Suna bows after him. Today, he is not quite a customer, but also maybe not quite a friend. At least, perhaps not yet.

* * *

_this feeling calls for everything i can’t afford_  
_to know_  
_is possible now_

* * *

A few days later, Suna discovers that Osamu had deposited an amount of money into his bank account equal to one and a half of the night pouches he had sold them. Suna smacks his forehead—he had given the Miya brothers his bank account details. Of course! How could he forget?

 _Checked my bank account today…… thank you,_ Suna sends him as a text message. _Let me know if you need help with other things._

And he gives up thinking that he won’t hear from Osamu anymore. 

Just three days later, Osamu visits the café about fifteen minutes after they open, this time as a customer. He orders dango and dorayaki again with two cups of tea. Suna’s parents are delighted to see him and he obligingly makes small-talk with them, but Suna can see that there’s something else that brought him here today aside from food. He gently shoos his parents back into the kitchen. 

He finds he’s right when, as Suna sets Osamu’s food and tea on his table, he asks, “Are you busy? I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh… sure.” Suna gestures to the empty café and sits in the seat opposite him. “No one’s here yet. I’ll hear you out. What’s up?”

Osamu gestures at the food and drinks he’s ordered—he’s wearing gloves again. “I, uh, ordered for you, too. It would be a bit awkward if it was just me eating.”

“But you paid for—”

“Please. I usually wouldn’t have any problems stuffing everything into my face, but not like this.”

Suna huffs a little laugh, shrugs, and picks up one of the dorayaki. “Okay then. Cheers?”

Osamu’s face eases into a smile. “Cheers.” He raises his cup of tea and takes a comfortable sip. Suna takes a bite of his snack.

“Okay, so that’s this thing you wanted to ask?” says Suna. Osamu drums his fingers on the table’s surface for a moment.

“The river stone you sold us,” he says. “The one that could detect sickness? We had a customer buy it just yesterday, but she was wondering… do you have another one we could buy from you?”

Suna blinks in surprise. “I don’t…”

“Do you know where we could acquire one?” Osamu pulls his gloves off and gets started on one of the sticks of dango. “Oh, hell, this is _good_.”

“Why does she want a second stone?” Suna asks with an uncomfortable twinge in his chest.

“The buyer has parents who are elderly and divorced. She is worried about their health, so she wants a river stone for each of them.”

Suna groans. “Well, when you put it _that_ way…”

“Mm, usually we get the collectors or the eccentrics… someone like her is hard to turn down. My brother and I were wondering whether this was something you could possibly help us with?”

For a while, Suna doesn’t say anything, staring unseeingly at their food as he slowly eats his dorayaki, thinking, thinking…

“I’m not sure,” he says at last, “but I can try to get one.”

Osamu sucks in a breath and says, “If that’s possible… We were thinking about offering the same price as the one you sold us, but we are open to negotiations, and we’ll be reimbursing you for any travel expenses, too.”

“You businessmen and your… all right, that’s fine, but let me actually get it first. When do you need it?”

“Maybe by the end of this week, or early next week?”

“Sounds fair.” Suna finishes his dorayaki. Osamu is still only halfway through his dango, turning the skewer restlessly between his fingers. 

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” he says quietly. “If you don’t want to, I understand.”

“What?” Had it been that obvious?

“You have a… look,” says Osamu. “I’ve seen it before. You really don’t want to get the river stone.”

Suna shakes his head. “It’s fine, I promise. If I really didn’t want to, I would’ve said no already.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s okay.” A curious sort of smile plays at Suna’s mouth. “You know, I told you once, you’re not what I expected, didn’t I?”

“And I said that I liked to think I have a moral compass,” Osamu answers with a huff of dry laughter. “I can go hard on a sale or a negotiation when I need to, but lucky for me, it’s not as often as it could be.”

“Is your brother better at it?”

“I think he’s more of a businessman than I am, but he doesn’t like dealing with people that often, so it’s hard to say. We have a weird balance, but we get by. It helps that our particular line of work is rare, so there’s less competition for us to be worried about.”

Life, death, fond memories, painful memories, people moving on, stories to tell. Perhaps knowing these sorts of stories would’ve hardened someone’s heart, made them apathetic or close to it, but it feels different with Osamu. Suna wonders if maybe it’s the opposite—that life and death and loss and gain had taught him empathy, kindness, patience.

“I have to get back to work,” says Suna, tapping the table’s surface lightly. “Thank you for the tea and dorayaki. Take your time and enjoy the rest, okay?”

“Thanks,” says Osamu. “And thank you for—”

“Wait for me to get it first.” Suna collects his teacup and stands from the table. “I’ll be in contact soon.”

“Still—thanks.”

“All right, all right.” They exchange a grin and Suna returns to the kitchen. Osamu resumes eating his dango.

* * *

Two days later, armed with a full bag with three boxes of snacks, Suna makes his way back to Kyoto. He knows the best time to go, he knows the routes to avoid, he knows how to get to his destination and back so that he’ll successfully dodge whoever he doesn’t want to see. Not that any of this helps his churning stomach as the views from the train windows look more and more familiar. His train announces the stop for Yamashina station, and with a sigh, he alights. He makes his way to the exit and heads towards the river.

It’s quiet, and he expected this. At this time in the late afternoon, people are heading home or picking up their children or finding a place to buy dinner. Nevertheless, Suna picks a spot by the riverbank that’s mostly hidden by low-hanging trees and he sits down on the grass. He waits.

After a handful of minutes, the water in the spot in front of him bubbles, and then an enormous carp with long, long whiskers breaks the surface. Its entire body looks like it is made of stone, but it is also moving with the ease of a fish, and very much alive.

“Rintarou, Rintarou!” says the carp happily. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”

“Yamashina-sama, good afternoon. Are you well?”

“The river is unchanged and so am I. The same cannot be said for you, though, hmm?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You are no longer wearing your ring.”

Suna’s right hand automatically touches his bare ring finger. “Ah…”

“A lot has happened, hasn’t it, my dear Rintarou? Come, tell me about it. Not many chat with me these days.” Yamashina waves a fin at his bag beside him. “You did not come here out of coincidence. You have food. You want to ask a favour of me.”

Suna sighs and smiles. “You always were a little too quick for me.”

“Hoho! I wasn’t born yesterday, my dear Rintarou!”

Suna opens his bag, pulling out containers of snacks: strawberry daifuku, four sticks of dango, and small black sesame cookies. Yamashina bubbles happily in the water.

“Quick, quick! The dango first! Ooh, shall I save that for last? Ooh, but…”

“We can alternate them,” says Suna, opening the box of daifuku. “Why don’t we start with these?”

“Very good, very good!”

Suna carefully drops two daifuku into Yamashina’s open mouth, and Yamashina hums approvingly.

“Delicious! That a fish like me can eat strawberries…”

“You’re a _river god_ ,” says Suna with a grin.

“And you think river gods can simply buy strawberries whenever we want, hmm?”

“All right, all right… try these black sesame cookies next.”

The cookies get Yamashina’s approval too, but it’s when Suna offers a skewer of dango that Yamashina gives a happy little splash. 

“Delicious! The sauce is perfect as always!”

“I’m glad you like them,” says Suna. “I had them made fresh right before I set out today.”

“Which reminds me…” Now, Yamashina fixes him with a clever eye. “Do you still have my scale that I gave you?”

Suna drops his gaze, shakes his head, and says quietly, “I’m sorry, Yamashina-sama. I sold it.”

“Oh? For a good price?”

“Decent, for what I told them. If I had said it was the scale of a river god, I was worried they wouldn’t leave you alone, so I kept that a secret. I told them it was a river stone.”

“Mm… thoughtful! I understand. Who did you sell it to?”

“A friend,” says Suna. “I guess? An acquaintance. May I tell you the favour I want to ask you?”

“You want another of my scales?”

“Fast as always.” Suna lets his hands fall into his lap and he nods. “That’s right.”

“For this same friend? Acquaintance?”

“Yes.”

“And what do they want with two scales of a river god?”

“My… friend… is a seller of curiosities and antiques. He has a customer who is concerned for the health of her parents and wants to give one each to them.”

Yamashina huffs into the water, blowing bubbles. “Well, when you put it _that_ way…”

Suna offers him another piece of daifuku. “That’s what I said, exactly. But I’ll understand if you say no.”

“Do you trust this friend of yours, Rintarou?”

Suna is quiet for a while, staring out into the river downstream. The lights of the surrounding buildings reflecting off the calm surface, the tiniest of ripples under the setting sun, the occasional bird flying overhead, two ducks paddling here and there. It’s calm and serene as always at this time of day; he almost misses it. 

“I think I do,” Suna says at last. “I don’t know him well, but there’s an honesty about him that I like. He’s… comfortable to be around. Kind. I didn’t realise how much I needed that sort of kindness. He was really patient with me when I was selling a lot of my items—the ones that reminded me the most of Seiji.”

“And my scale was one such item?”

Suna looks down at his hands. “Do you remember when you gave it to me?”

“It was the first time we met,” says Yamashina, nodding. “Hand me some cookies, won’t you? _Mm_ … Yes, you were angry and hurt. You had a fight with him.”

“It wasn’t our first fight, but it was our biggest at the time. I stormed off, wandered around… found you. That was almost three years ago. Now… Seiji and I are no longer together. I moved back home with my parents last month.”

“The last time I saw you half a year ago, your heart was breaking. You had lost your way. But… today, you are different. You are healing. You are helping a friend,” says Yamashina. “I will give you another of my scales, but do not think you can ask this of me every time, Rintarou.”

“This will be the last time, I promise,” says Suna. “The next time I stop by will be only to chat. I’ll bring more dango that you love so much.”

“Wonderful!” Yamashina nods. “If you bring enough dango, I might consider giving you a third scale…”

“You would?”

“No.”

Suna laughs.

“Oh! That’s a sight I haven’t seen in a while!” says Yamashina. “You, laughing. I have seen you unhappy more often than not.”

“I don’t like being here, back on this side of Kyoto. I used to live around here with Seiji, so it reminds me of him.” Suna reaches for the second dango skewer, slides the dango off it, and drops them into Yamashina’s waiting mouth. “I liked talking with you, though. I always felt better.”

“Sometimes, friends are found when we least expect it.” Yamashina disappears underwater for a moment before resurfacing and saying, “Here!”

A palm-sized disc of an object flicks out of the water and lands on the grass right in front of Suna. He picks it up: an unusually flat, smooth grey scale that looks like a river stone, almost identical to the one he had sold to the Miya brothers. It has a comfortable weight in his hand.

“Thank you, Yamashina-sama,” he says. 

“Hand more some more daifuku, won’t you?”

Suna obliges.

“It’s getting dark,” says Yamashina after gulping down three more. “Should you be on your way home soon, Rintarou?”

“I can stay, if you’d like,” says Suna.

“Is it cold?”

“A little…”

“Hmph, ‘a little’! You humans and your catching of sicknesses… If you fell ill, you’d be using my scale for yourself. You have no more dango?”

“I do—two more sticks.”

“Leave them here with the rest of the snacks, and then be on your way home, my dear Rintarou. I don’t want you to be sick. Next time you stop by, let’s have more dango.”

“Did you like the black sesame cookies and the strawberry daifuku?”

“Of course! How could I say no to sweet snacks? But dango has always been my favourite.”

Suna smiles and says, “I’ll try not to take so long when I next visit, then.” 

He puts the rest of the strawberry daifuku and black sesame cookies into one container and then carefully sets it and the container of the two remaining dango skewers afloat on the water. He watches as Yamashina ducks back under the water’s surface and swims in a few large circles under them.

“Thank you again, Yamashina-sama,” he calls out. “For your scale, and also for your company.”

Yamashina breaks the surface once more and says, “Be well, Rintarou.”

Suna packs up his bag and shoulders it and begins to make his way back onto the footpath. He looks back briefly: under the slowly darkening sky of the setting sun, the two containers of snacks are still floating along the river, and he can still see Yamashina swimming leisurely underneath them.

* * *

_this feeling calls for everything that i am_  
_not_

* * *

The next day, Suna arrives at the Miya’s store at around four in the afternoon with the scale wrapped in fabric in his pocket. When the bell hanging on the door chimes and he makes his way into the reception area, Osamu hurries out.

“Welc—oh, hi!” he says. 

“Hey,” says Suna. “I got the river stone you asked for.”

“Already?! I wasn’t expecting you for another day or two.”

Suna pulls it from his pocket and unwraps it, setting it on the counter and Osamu scoops it up carefully into his hands, fabric and all, and—

Osamu flinches and drops them back onto the counter like he’d been burned, bringing his hands back and pressing them close to himself. Suna stares at him.

“I’m—my—” Osamu mumbles. “My gloves—forgot—”

His hands had been bare. He ducks behind the counter to yank open a drawer and grabs another pair of blue disposable gloves from their box. He pulls them on and says, “Sorry, I forgot my gloves. I don’t… I don’t usually forget…” Osamu picks up the stone again, running his thumbs against it carefully and turning it over in his hands, but something feels off this time.

“Are you okay?” Suna asks. “Do you want me to come back later?”

“No! No, it’s not—I’m fine. The stone is fine too. I mean, we probably don’t need to verify it, so… ah, my notebook.” Osamu sets the stone down and hurries into the back area to find it. Suna can hear the increasingly frantic shuffling of various objects. He peeks over the counter where the corner of a familiar book is just visible.

“Osamu? Is it this one?”

He runs back out. Suna points over the counter. Osamu’s gaze falls onto the book and his shoulders slump and he nods. 

“Yup,” he mutters. “That’s the bastard.”

Suna watches as he flips the book open and he begins making notes in it. His actions are a little too deliberate and tense, and Suna then realises that Osamu has not met his eye since touching the river stone.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he asks, “What is it about your gloves? Why are they so important?”

Osamu stops writing and he fixes his gaze on Suna for a while, as though weighing up his options. Then, he picks up his notebook and pen and the river stone, and he gestures towards the nearby couches. Suna follows him and they take a couch each.

“It’s not something I tell everyone,” says Osamu as he sets everything down on the round table between the couches and opens his notebook again, “but I can feel emotions on anything I touch with my hands. Anything and anyone. If I shake hands with someone, I’ll know whatever they’re feeling at the time. If I’m on the train, or at a restaurant, or if I pick up something, I’ll feel the most recent emotions or the strongest emotions left behind… and with my line of work, that can be hell more often than not. That’s why I wear gloves all the time. They’re a barrier and stops me from feeling all the emotions that I do. I keep a distance so I don’t have to know more than I need to.”

Suna exhales slowly, watches Osamu write in silence for a moment, before saying, “Whatever I expected you to tell me, that wasn’t it.”

Osamu huffs a small laugh. “You meet spirits, you can weave night into fabrics, and you have items with gold that literally moves… you can’t tell me this is weird.”

“Nothing wrong with weird,” says Suna. “But I just thought you were being pedantic all this time.”

The smile on Osamu’s face widens. “I mean, that, too.” Suna snickers.

“You asked me once,” Osamu continues, “whether I got curious about the items that come in and the people who sell them to us. The truth is, sometimes I’m too scared to be curious. I’ve had people tell me in the past that this ability of mine could be a gift, and I’ve tried to see it that way, but it just… feels invasive. I don’t like it. Sometimes I think I’d be used to it enough that it won’t affect me so much, but that’s never been the case. Maybe I’ve worn gloves too often and I haven’t been able to build an immunity to it.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” says Suna. “An ‘immunity’?”

Osamu just shrugs uncomfortably.

“So, the river stone just then… was it that bad?”

Osamu taps his pen restlessly on his knee as he leans back against the couch. “It was… bittersweet. More bitter than sweet. There was a little bit of comfort, like when you run into a friend. But there was a lot of… you not wanting to be somewhere. Heartbreak, some anger…” He pauses. “Regret. Am I off the mark anywhere?”

Suna shakes his head. “No… not at all."

“You said the first river stone you sold us had ties to your fiancé—”

“Ex-fiancé. The place where I got it wasn’t far from where he and I used to live.”

“Ah… I’m sorry, I really should’ve known better than to ask you to get it for us.”

“And you’ll recall that I was the one who offered to get it,” says Suna. “If I really didn’t want to go, I would’ve said no already.”

Osamu doesn’t answer, looking uncertain, and they fall into silence again. Suna can almost hear a hundred questions Osamu must have. He gathers his own thoughts, remembers Yamashina telling him, ‘ _today, you are different. You are healing_ ’.

He could keep healing. He must keep healing.

“Would it be okay if I told you about it?” he asks quietly. 

Something about Osamu relaxes, and he exhales and sets his pen down on the table. He nods. “I don’t have any appointments today. Why don’t we go for a walk? I’ll put all this away.”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later, they are strolling slowly down the street in an aimless wander. It is neither cool nor warm outside, and the sun hasn’t yet begun to set. Close to this time just yesterday, Suna had been back in Kyoto with a churning in his stomach, wondering if he would have to suddenly dodge familiar faces.

“His name was Maeda Seiji,” Suna begins. “We met through mutual friends. We were together for a little over four years. Seiji proposed about a year and a half ago. Things were more or less fine up until then, but after we got engaged… it went downhill from there. We were fighting a lot. There was a point where we were arguing every day. He came from a wealthy family—they own two small hotels in Osaka and Kyoto, and three hostels around the country—whereas my family is very… normal. His parents didn’t like me because of that, no matter what I did, and they weren’t happy that he proposed to me without talking to them first. They put a lot of pressure on him—he was the eldest son, too, so they had a lot of expectations for him. He ended up taking it out on me more and more often. Eventually, I couldn’t deal with it anymore, and we called off the engagement.” He gives a bitter laugh. “I bet his parents were thrilled.”

Osamu winces at him. “Did you mutually call off the engagement or was it one-sided?”

“Is it that obvious?” says Suna. 

“I think… it’s not hard to see where this is going.”

“Hah… yeah, you’re right; I called it off. We were in the middle of another argument at home and I fully realised how unhappy I was… how unhappy we _both_ were. So I told him I couldn’t do it anymore and I took off my ring. He left to cool his head and I packed my suitcase and a bag. I left that evening and went back to my parents’ place. I’ve been here ever since. I cut off all contact, and I’ve cut off a lot of friends, too, but the thought of having to be around anyone who reminded me of him just upset me. And since we got engaged, I had been working for his family at their Kyoto hotel, so me suddenly dropping all that without any notice… I was _not_ about to deal with _that_ fallout.”

“You were _working_ with them, too?”

“I thought I could get them to like me if they saw that I was trying to work hard for Seiji’s sake. I have made some good decisions in my life, but that was definitely not one of them. Seiji actually tried talking me out of it at first, but I was stubborn. I thought I could handle it. That was one of our nicer arguments.”

“What else did you guys argue about?”

“What _didn’t_ we argue about?” says Suna dryly. “Anything would set us off. We argued about shitty small things like forgetting to turn off the stove light, or not answering a text message, or forgetting to buy certain groceries. But we definitely argued about bigger things, too. Once, we were meant to go out for dinner for my father’s birthday, but Seiji didn’t show up because he was helping his aunt with some internet connection issue at her house. I was so _pissed_. Another time, we were out shopping with his parents but I was looking at my phone too often, and we argued when we got home because it was rude, but I just got defensive. And I probably complained about working with his family a bit too much… he really cares about them, and it never really occurred to me how upsetting that could be to him.” Suna sighs, long and deep. “I say his parents put a lot of pressure on him, but looking back, I wasn’t very patient with him, either.”

“Is that the regret talking?” says Osamu. 

“Probably,” says Suna. “I mean, I know he tried his best, but… I also don’t think I’m being biased when I say that I came second to his family. They were always really demanding and he’d drop everything for them in a heartbeat, but he’d take his time whenever I needed something from him. I couldn’t ask him to put them aside, but I wanted to be equal to them, not inferior.” Another sigh, tired. “ _Sooooo_ … that was us. Him, his family’s doormat; me, not understanding or patient. No wonder we didn’t work out.”

“It just sounds to me like you both had a lot of pressure on you,” says Osamu. “I’ve seen people from all walks of life and I know family can be… a lot to deal with, sometimes.”

“That’s an understatement. I used to think that books and movies and TV shows exaggerated rich families being all snooty and full of themselves… but I lived it. I could write a soap opera someday. I mean, sometimes the luxuries were nice, but at the expense of my sanity? I’d rather not.”

“Speaking of luxuries… the Tag Heuer, right?”

“Ah.” Suna’s lips purse in a line.

“Can you tell me about them? The watches?”

They walk on in silence for a short while. Suna scuffs the ground with his foot restlessly and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“For my birthday each year,” he says, “Seiji would gift me a watch. First was the Casio, then the Citizen, then the Hilfiger. My birthday that I got the Tag Heuer wasn’t long before we broke up… and not long after we had another big fight. I guess he wanted to make it up to me so he went for something more expensive, but by then, I wasn’t even wearing his watches anymore. They just made me unhappy. As for all the other stuff… all the magical ones—I’ve been collecting things since I was a kid because I like them. It’s just a hobby. Usually, whenever Seiji and I went on a holiday somewhere, I’d bring something back as a souvenir. Somehow, his family never really paid them much attention, so I didn’t get many snide remarks aside from occasional, ‘gosh, Rintarou, that’s just so weird’.”

“Seriously? Moving _kintsugi_ and bottled moonlight and a fox spirit’s calligraphy brush… they’re not impressed by those?”

“They’re money people. To them, those things were pretty at best, but what could they do with them? They don’t know how to find people like you and your brother to sell them to.”

“That reminds me—how did _you_ find us?” Osamu wanted to know. “It’s not like we put ourselves in any directories. We don’t even have a webpage.”

“A friend of my mother’s sold some antiques to you a few years ago, so my mother asked for your contact details and then suggested I sell some of my stuff to you. Get myself some money to stand back on my own feet. So I took the items I had that reminded me most strongly of Seiji and… here we are today.”

“Has it helped? Not the money—the letting go of things.”

Suna stares ahead pensively before saying, “I think so. I don’t feel as suffocated as I used to. I mean, thinking about it still upsets me, and I should probably do something about the fact that I cut everyone off so suddenly, but for now… this is okay.” He takes a deep breath and stretches his arms above his head.

“I don’t need things like memories,” he continues. “I still have other items I keep for myself, and those are okay, but now, I can focus on the future. I like that more.”

Osamu smiles slightly. “I understand a bit.”

“Yeah?”

“My line of work teaches me a lot about letting go of things. Most of all: that we often underestimate how important it is. We’re always tying memories with physical objects, and sometimes we don’t realise just _how much_ we do.” They’ve reached the peak of a bridge overlooking a river, and Osamu stops walking. Suna stops beside him and leans against the railing. “I think that, right now, you are grieving. You’re hurting for someone who was important to you… still _is_ important to you.”

“He is _not_ —” Suna begins to protest, but Osamu shakes his head.

“You were engaged. You nearly married him,” he reminds him. “That fact isn’t going to go away in such a short amount of time, so don’t think you have to get over it so soon. You’ve already taken a huge step to heal, but you’re still healing. It’s a process. So… let it happen. Let yourself keep healing. You said you regretted not being more patient with him—don’t make that same mistake for yourself.”

The temperature is beginning to cool. The sun is beginning to set, the sky turning a marvellous warm palette. Suna hadn’t noticed until just now. It reminds him of yesterday, watching a river in Kyoto as he chatted with a river god, very nearly longing for days he couldn’t ever go back to.

Suna turns to lean over the bridge’s railing, arms hanging down as though trying to reach into the water running beneath them.

“I didn’t expect all that,” he says.

“Neither did I,” Osamu admits, and Suna gives a little laugh.

“Whatever happened to, ‘I keep a distance so I don’t have to know more than I need to’?”

Osamu shrugs. “I’m only human. I see a friend struggling, and I want to help him.”

_A friend._

Suna stands up and straightens up his back again, stretching his arms out comfortably in front of him before saying quietly, “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry if I said too much.”

“You didn’t.” Suna tilts his head curiously at him. “Have _you_ ever had a bad break-up, then? You seem to know an awful lot about getting over one.”

“I’m just observant, I guess,” says Osamu.

“Are you in a relationship?”

“No.”

“Been in one before?”

“A few years ago, but it wasn’t anything serious in the end.”

“Seriously? With looks like yours? _Nothing since then?_ ”

“No.” Osamu smiles. “And please don’t do that, you sound like one of my aunts.”

“Ah, my bad… my parents’ friends' influence is rubbing off on me.”

For a while, they both dissolve into laughter. It’s comfortable company—friends found in unlikely places. Suna had dragged Osamu out and made him listen to his story for maybe too long, but Osamu doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. Perhaps, after today, they would both be wiser people.

They resume their aimless walk.

“You told me,” says Suna, “that you can go hard on a sale when you need to. So, make sure that lady buys that river stone.”

“I will,” says Osamu. “As for your payment, if you’re okay with the same price as the first river stone, then I’ll have that transferred to you tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“And the travel expenses—”

“Don’t worry about that. I used the chance to visit a friend while I was there.”

“Ah…” Osamu makes a thoughtful humming sound before saying, “Well, my brother and I have been wondering if we could ask you for help for future items if we need to? Even if not for actually getting them, maybe to ask for advice? No one else we’ve met had such an extensive collection as yours, so it could be helpful.”

Suna thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Yeah, that could be okay. I won’t always be able to help—the items don’t always just fall into my lap when I want them to—but feel free to ask whenever you like. Just don’t expect me to have an answer every time.”

“That’s more than fair,” says Osamu. “Thank you.”

“Right back at you,” says Suna. “And thank you for hearing me out.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t apologise.”

“I… Okay.”

And then, they fall into a comfortable silence. There are questions building up inside of Suna about Osamu that he wants to ask: what are his own parents like, does he like working with his brother, how long has he been working at his job, what job title does he give himself, anyway? But, curious as he is becoming, he leaves them unsaid for today. Perhaps he’ll ask next time they see each other. 

They part ways at the train station. Osamu waits for Suna to go through the ticket gates and Suna casts one last look over his shoulder before he is out of sight. When Osamu grins and waves, Suna thinks that a piece of his heart has healed today.

* * *

_but you had to come along, didn’t you?_  
_tear down the doors, throw open windows_

* * *

Late in the next week, Suna’s parents send him over to the Miyas' store with a box of a dozen plump and freshly made melon daifuku he had been snapping photos of for their café’s Instagram.

There is no real reason for this. They had gone on for too many minutes about how Osamu was ‘ _such a nice boy_ ’ and ‘ _so polite_ ’ and ‘ _so helpful_ ’, even when Suna pointed out that they had only met him twice, which they ignored, and then his mother had said, “There’s no reason _not_ to give him daifuku, right?” for which Suna had no comeback, and so his parents a-little-too-cheerfully shooed him out of the café.

“ _At least let me get changed first!_ ” Suna protests, clinging onto the door frame before his father can fully boot him out.

And that is why, several minutes later, he is standing outside the Miya’s shopfront again with the box of daifuku tucked into a bag hanging from his hand. He had never expected the shopfront to become familiar to him, but life is funny that way. He pushes the door open and the bell hanging off it rings merrily as usual.

The reception area is empty. He waits for Osamu to come hurrying out as he usually does, but he takes longer this time and the footsteps Suna hears aren’t as rushed.

Osamu’s blond mirror image pokes his head into the room. There is a smile on his face but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes—at the sight of him, Suna feels like he has just interrupted something important.

“Welcome,” says the mirror image, but Suna knows he is not. “How can I help you?”

Suna remembers the tiny bits and pieces Osamu has told him. He remembers having to deal with difficult family members that are not his own. He eases his face into a smile rather like the not-Osamu’s.

“You must be Miya Atsumu-san,” he says in his best customer service voice. Reverse psychology of some form, maybe. “I’m looking for Osamu.”

“My brother is out at the moment. Is there something I can assist you with?”

“I just had something to drop off for him.” Suna lifts the bag he is holding. 

There’s a silence that’s a beat too long when Atsumu obviously realises that Suna isn’t about to just leave the bag or say ‘I can come back later’. He not-very-cheerfully gestures to the couches in the room. “Osamu will be back soon. Please, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you some tea?”

Suna’s first instinct is to politely decline. Instead, he says, “That would be lovely.” There is the faintest of twitches in Atsumu’s jaw, and Suna congratulates himself as he sits on a couch. Atsumu shuffles back out and returns a few minutes later with a steaming cup of roasted tea.

“Thank you,” says Suna when Atsumu sets it down on the table in front of him, because nobody could say he didn’t have manners when he needed to utilise them. 

“You are very welcome,” says Atsumu, and again, Suna knows he is not. “I’ll send Osamu a message to let him know you’re here. May I ask your name?”

“Suna. Suna Rintarou.”

Atsumu raises his eyebrows in surprise. The atmosphere suddenly changes, and Suna could swear it almost feels friendly. “So _you’re_ Suna Rintarou-sama!”

Unfortunately, this throws Suna off. “I’m—I—just call me Suna,” he says. “What do you mean by that?”

Atsumu’s smile widens and he slides into the second couch, crossing one leg over the other comfortably and folding his hands in his lap. “Oh, it’s just… you know, the first time you came around?”

Ah. When he had run out on Osamu suddenly. Of course. Osamu would’ve told him about it. Suna stares back at Atsumu expressionlessly.

“Oh, that,” he says with a bored tone as if he didn’t suddenly want to lob the bag of daifuku into his face. “Not my finest moment, but it worked out. I mean, even you liked my collection, right?”

With a confused tilt of his head, Atsumu’s smile falters. “Of course I did,” he says as if it’s obvious, and Suna realises he hadn’t been talking about him bolting off that time. “Who wouldn’t be impressed with what you brought in? ‘Samu and I have worked here for years, but that was the first time we’d ever seen spider spirit’s web before. And all the fabric you’ve woven night into? They were _impressive_. You really helped us out with the night inkstick, too, so—thank you.” 

“Um… sure.” Suna sips his tea. He’d gotten the wrong first impression of this Miya twin and he is _slightly_ guilty about it. “Did I interrupt you before? You looked like you were busy with something before I came in.”

“Oh, that.” Atsumu pulls a face. “It’s fine. ‘Samu needs to help me with it later anyway… don’t worry! I’m glad I finally got to meet you and thank you in person.”

“It’s fine,” Suna mumbles. “Thanks for the tea, Miya-san.”

Atsumu brightens. “Just call me Atsumu—everyone does. The tea’s not bad, right? Let me know if you’d like more. We always get tea as gifts, so we’re never short. We can’t get rid of them fast enough.” Atsumu gestures to the back rooms with his hand, and that’s when Suna realises—

“You don’t wear gloves.”

“Hm?”

“Your hands. Osamu—he wears gloves everywhere, but you don’t.”

“ _Oh_.” Atsumu turns his hands and nods. “Do you know about his special ability then?”

“He told me. He can feel emotions on people and things he touches. Do you—? Can you—” 

Atsumu shakes his head. “Mine is very different. I read people’s hands.”

“Read—? Like palm-reading?”

“No, not just palms— _hands_. Your palms, your fingers, your lines, all of it. I can know a person’s life story by looking at their hands. If I study them long enough, I can read a little of their future, too.” And here, Atsumu smiles again, but it’s different from his passive-aggressive customer service smile or when he realised who Suna was. Here, he is inviting caution. “Would you like me to read your hands, Suna-san?”

Suna feels an unpleasant swoop in his stomach as he remembers Osamu reading his emotions when he had picked up the river stone. Just by reading his hand, Atsumu could know about the bitter, the sweet, and the bittersweet moments he’d endured—his happiness, heartbreak, his anger, his regrets. But maybe Atsumu could also tell Suna what his future held—whether Seiji would ever play another role in his life ever again, whether Suna would ever fully get over it, whether he would—

“Just ‘Suna’ is fine,” says Suna. His hands clutch around his teacup, hot ceramic stinging his palms. “And… no, thank you.”

Atsumu’s hum sounds almost approving, which makes Suna think he’s made the smart choice. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Suna feels like he’s just dodged a bullet. He sips his tea again and sets the cup back onto the table, trying to think of an excuse to pardon himself and leave when the front door’s familiar chime rings, and they both look up. Osamu comes into view, sighing tiredly.

“The old man finally decided to—oh! Hi, Suna!”

“Hey.”

“Took you long enough!” All forced politeness apparently dropped, Atsumu jumps to his feet. “Suna’s been here for _ages!_ ”

“Age—” Osamu stares between the two of them, the cup of tea Suna had been drinking from, the back area, then back to Suna.

And then, with surprising swiftness, Osamu dashes around the table and seizes Atsumu by the collar and hauls him out of sight into the back area, Atsumu spluttering in protest the whole time. Suna can hear the whispering and hissing of an argument that he can’t figure out. He’s beginning to wonder if he should’ve just left the daifuku when both twins reappear, Atsumu adjusting his collar sulkily and Osamu now calmly setting aside his bag.

“Sorry about that,” says Osamu. “I was just making sure he wasn’t being a jackass as usual.”

“I don’t wanna hear that from _you_ ,” Atsumu barks. “Look, I was nice! I got him tea!”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just spill it everywhere.” Osamu squints at him. “You didn’t, did you?”

“I did NOT.”

“Am I gonna go into the kitchen just to find water on th—”

Suna sips his tea loudly and they stop bickering to stare at him.

“I brought melon daifuku,” says Suna, and their eyes light up at the same time, identical.

“Melon daifuku?” Atsumu repeats curiously as Suna opens the box he’d brought with four green, four pink, and four orange daifuku nestled neatly in rows inside. “Did you make these?”

“Yeah, my parents own a café that sells mostly traditional desserts.” Suna looks at Osamu. “You never told him?”

“Yeah, ‘ _Samu_ ,” says Atsumu pointedly. “ _You never told me?_ ”

Osamu just shrugs and picks out an orange daifuku with one of the mini wooden forks inside the box. “If I told you, you’d eat all the dango before I could get there. Mm, this is _really_ good.”

“They have _dango?_ ” Atsumu exclaims, plucking out a green daifuku. “What’s the address?”

“Jeez, I’ll take you there next time,” says Osamu.

“You’d better! I have a witness!”

“You guys won’t kill each other over these if I leave them here, will you?” asks Suna. 

“Nooooo, never!” they both chime in perfect unison.

“I don’t want blood on my hands so please share them evenly or I’ll never bring them again.”

“You’ll bring _more?_ ” they chorus, and Suna can’t fight back a grin.

“We’ll see. My parents sent me here with these today. I didn’t expect it. Speaking of…” He checks the time on his phone. “Yep, it’s nearly closing time, so I should start heading back. Thanks for the tea.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” says Osamu.

Atsumu isn’t paying attention to either of them, instead peering at the daifuku. “Pink or orange?”

“The orange one is my favourite, personally.” Suna stands up and Osamu walks him to the door.

“That was really nice of your parents,” he says as they step outside. “Tell them we said thanks.”

“Sure.” Suna nods at the shop. “It was nice to finally meet your brother.”

“In the same way that stubbing your toe is nice, I guess. He didn’t offend you, did he?”

“No, we were equally passive-aggressive to each other, but once he realised who I was, it wasn’t so bad. I think he’s all right.” Osamu just snorts, but otherwise doesn’t offer a response. Suna adds, “He, uh… mentioned he can read hands? He wasn’t joking about that, was he?”

“Oh… that. No, it’s real. He can read people’s past and present in detail. He can read the future too, but not as clearly. Did he offer to read yours?”

“Yeah. I said no.”

Osamu tilts his head to the side, a little confused, a little curious. “Not many say no.”

“Really?”

“’Tsumu’s hand-reading is a badly-kept secret amongst people who know us. He doesn’t like to advertise it, but some people will pay good money to have him read their futures. It’s rare that he offers it… even rarer that people would turn it down.”

Suna looks away, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I just noticed that he didn’t wear gloves like you, that’s all. I’d just met him, I wasn’t too keen on him knowing everything about me so suddenly.”

“Ah… yeah, that’s fair. My bad.”

“It’s okay. But you know… you should get back to what’s left of the daifuku.”

“Oh! Good point. But if he eats them all, I’ll just keep your café as my secret. I might stop by for snacks tomorrow, if that’s okay? We’ll be in the area.”

His parents would be delighted. Suna smiles. “Of course. See you soon, then.”

And this time, when Suna begins to walk away, Osamu doesn’t bow after him, instead opting to just wave. Suna likes this better. 

When he arrives back at the café several minutes later, he sees that the sandwich board that’s usually outside by the door has already been taken in. That’s _his_ job.

“I’m back,” he calls out as he slides the door open and enters. “The daifuku were really—”

He realises there is one person still inside the café, seated by the wall near the middle. The customer raises his head. At the sight of him, Suna freezes and there’s a wild lurching in his stomach.

“Rintarou,” says the figure, standing up from his table. The way Suna’s name falls from his mouth is heartachingly familiar.

“Seiji,” Suna murmurs.

* * *

_i’m so good at shooting down any notion_  
_this tired world could change_

* * *

“How are you?”

“What are you doing here, Seiji?”

“Visiting, obviously.”

“ _Why_ are you here?”

“You blocked my number, remember? And you deleted all your social media accounts. I thought about asking our friends to call you, but I didn’t want to drag more people into it. So, I came here myself.”

Suna realises his parents are still in the kitchen, poking their heads out with frowns on their faces. His father is standing at full height and he looks about five seconds away from giving Seiji a piece of his mind, probably with a frying pan in hand. Suna hurries over to them.

“Rintarou—”

“Rin-chan—”

“It’s okay,” says Suna in what he hopes is a soothing voice. “Please stop looking like you’re about to throw a chair at him.”

“That’s a good idea,” his mother mutters under her breath.

“It’s _fine_. I’ll talk to him. Can I leave the packing up to you? I’ll clean the floor and stack the chairs when I get back.”

His parents agree reluctantly. Suna heads back out.

“Let’s take a walk,” he says coolly, leaving no room for options. Seiji just sighs and follows him outside.

“You can’t tell me that this is surprising,” he says. “You cut us all off so suddenly.”

“Yeah, and can you blame me?” Suna’s voice has a little too much bite. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

Seiji is silent for a while as they make their way slowly down the street. Suna wishes he had a hat or glasses or some sort of disguise. He feels exposed like this. If they bumped into friends of his parents and they caught wind of what was going on right now…

“I just,” says Seiji, bringing Suna out of his thoughts, “wanted to see where we’re at. It’s been over a month—”

“I’m not going back,” Suna snaps. “I took my ring off and left it behind. I took back all my stuff and blocked your number! Does that none of that mean a _fucking_ thing to you?”

Seiji flinches, and Suna almost regrets his words. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Then consider this me making sure.”

“Can you please stop trying to take my head off?”

His words are cold water against hot skin. Suna falters, reminded of the conversations they used to have that would simply dissolve into arguments and shouting over and over again.

“I’m surprised you’re not biting back,” Suna mutters in lieu of an apology. He’s not proud of it, but not so regretful that he’s ready to say sorry.

Seiji’s lips purse before he says, quieter, “I did too much of that already. Isn’t that half the reason you left?”

“I left because we weren’t _happy_ ,” says Suna. “We hadn’t been happy in _months_. I’m not going back. Isn’t that what your parents want?”

“It’s not what _I_ want.”

Suna stops abruptly, turning to stare at him with a stunned expression. “It’s a bit late for _that_ , Seiji!”

“ _Rin_ —”

“Don’t. _Don’t_ , okay? I don’t know why you think—” Suna runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath, frustrated. “Your parents _hated_ me—don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true. And I sure as hell didn’t like them, either. You rolled over for everything they demanded from you—”

” _Hey_ —”

“—and I was never going to be patient enough for any of you. I wasn’t going to wait on the sidelines forever for you to remember to give me the time of day, I wasn’t going to kiss your parents’ goddamn shoes just to get on their good side—no, let me _finish_ —I was never going to get along with them, and you…” Suna’s voice catches in his throat and, mortified, he feels a flush in his cheeks. “You tried to love us all, but at the end of the day, you always tried harder to be the good eldest son. That’s what _they_ wanted, but what _I_ needed was for you to be _Seiji_. I needed you to grow a goddamn spine and not dash off every time they called you because they accidentally set the fucking fire alarm off!”

None of this was new. Seiji knew this, and he doesn’t look surprised in the slightest—he looks defeated. 

He always tries to be helpful. He is not a bad person. Their friends would always point to Seiji as the one who held the moral compass between them both. Suna knows all this with every fibre of his being, and it’s because of this that there’s the tiniest bit of him that wants to cave. There’s the tiniest bit of him that wants to try again. 

But he thinks of the last argument that was the final straw; the snide remarks from Seiji’s parents about Suna’s parents’ humble backgrounds and their café, and the first time Suna had finally talked back to them; working at their Kyoto hotel and hating every single day that he did; the stunned looks on their faces when he and Seiji had broken the news together that Seiji had proposed; Seiji always dropping everything for their sake.

It was never going to work, was it? All they did was set themselves up for heartbreak.

“It was never going to work,” Suna says, now quietly, and it hurts more than he’ll ever admit. “We tried, Seiji. We really did.”

“I know,” Seiji murmurs, dropping his gaze to the ground. “I know. I’m sor—”

But Suna shakes his head. “Don’t apologise. You and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

And that, perhaps, was the worst part.

“You should go home. It’s getting late,” says Suna.

Seiji takes a long, slow breath and nods, just a tiny movement. He clears his throat. “What do you want me to do with the stuff you left behind? You left a lot of clothes—”

“I took everything that I needed with me. Most of the stuff I left behind were business clothes. No one needs a dozen suits. Sell them, donate them, burn them—fuck, I don’t care.” 

Seiji takes another breath and finally raises his head. His eyes look damp, but Suna can’t be sure because if he looks at him for too long, he might start to tear up, too.

“Just one more question,” says Seiji.

“Go on,” says Suna reluctantly.

They are quiet for a while, and it feels like Seiji is debating whether to ask his question at all. Part of Suna wants to tell him to get on with it, but his impatience had never really been a good thing, and so, he waits, and—

“Were you happy?”

Whatever Suna was expecting, that was not it. He stares at him, taken aback with his thoughts jumbled in his head.

Had he been happy?

Had they been happy?

Laughing hard enough that they had to lean on each other for support, and arguing loudly enough that their neighbours heard it and knocked on their door to ask if everything was okay; the Casio that Seiji had gifted him that he wore every day for a year, and the Tag Heuer that he had never even touched; going out for dinner for Suna’s birthday at his favourite restaurant, and waiting outside the place they had booked for his father’s birthday but Seiji was nowhere to be seen and not answering calls; celebrating together after an accomodation deal had been finalised with a local baseball team, and Seiji rubbing his shoulder comfortingly after his father had yelled at Suna over the phone when a deal with a supplier had been messed up.

Seiji, coming out all this way and wanting Suna to come home. 

Suna had some regrets over the course of their relationship, but being with Seiji would never be one of those regrets. They had been happy—but that was all in the past now.

“If I wasn’t happy, I wouldn’t have said yes when you proposed,” Suna says.

And that is the extent of all he can take. He turns his heel and abruptly leaves.

* * *

_i just stopped believing in happy endings_  
_harbours of my own_

* * *

When Suna arrives back at the café, the floor has been cleaned and the chairs have been flipped upside-down and stacked on top of the tables as usual. His parents are somewhere out the back, judging by their voices. Tired, Suna makes his way upstairs to his room where he slides the door shut and slumps to the floor against the wall by his window. He kind of wants to cry, but he is also emotionally drained enough that he can’t muster the effort.

Footsteps trek up the stairs, and then there’s a knock on the door. Now that he thinks about it, his parents didn’t used to care about knocking, but ever since he moved home, they’ve been much more thoughtful.

“I’m here,” he says.

They open the door, both peeking in hesitantly.

“Oh, Rin-chan,” says his mother.

“I’m okay,” says Suna. But right on cue, his eyes well up with tears. “We just talked. We’re completely over. I’ll be okay.”

His father stays hovering near the door frame as his mother shuffles over, bends down, and kisses his forehead.

“I remember that night you came home after you broke things off,” she says, stroking his hair. “I’ve never seen you so heartbroken before.”

“Recovering from heartbreak is not an easy path,” says his father gently. “You’ll have your highs and lows, so… be patient. Why don’t you take a day off tomorrow?”

“What would I do? I’ll be fine, I can help out.”

“Do you want to eat dinner?” says his mother. “We’re going to start cooking soon.” 

“I’ll eat a bit later,” says Suna. “I just want to be alone for a while.”

“But—”

“ _Dear_ ,” says his father firmly, and his mother frowns. She looks like she wants to protest, but when Suna gives her a watery smile, she sighs, kisses his forehead again, and they exit his room, soft footsteps leading away.

“When did _you_ have a nasty break-up?” he hears his mother say as they walk.

“In high school, with my first girlfriend,” his father answers.

“Ooh, tell me about her!”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Why not?”

It quietens. Suna’s window is open and he can hear the occasional bike bell, cars driving past, sometimes people laughing as they walked. Seiji is probably on his way back to Kyoto by now. Tomorrow, he’ll be back to work as usual. Maybe the employees have been gossiping about them. Maybe Seiji’s parents have been spreading rumours and making Suna look like the worst thing to have ever walked in and out of their lives.

Ah, well. 

He closes his eyes. He is too tired for this. Highs and lows. Tomorrow would be another day.

* * *

Throughout most of the next day, Suna can sense his parents holding silent conversations about him when they think he doesn’t notice. He supposes he understands—they’re concerned for their son and aren’t too great at expressing themselves in light of something as emotional as a break-up with a fiancé. Do they tip-toe around him like he’s a fragile thing? Do they bulldoze ahead and try to forcibly cheer him up when he might not be ready? Everyone handles these kinds of things differently. Suna himself isn’t sure what he wants right now.

He’s in the middle of drying some cups and trying to ignore them as they attempt to do a subtle interpretive dance of conversation behind his back. His father is meant to be chopping up strawberries and his mother had been making more coffee jelly. Suna fights back a sigh as he puts down the last cup, picks up another cloth, and heads back outside to wipe down the table from the last customer. It’s a quiet lull in the day.

“Welcome,” he says when he hears the door slide open. He looks up, and at the sight of both Miya twins stepping inside, his face breaks into a grin and he almost starts laughing and he also kind of wants to cry again. There’s a relief here that he doesn’t quite understand, a tension that’s been shattered. “Table for two?”

“If you like, I can stand outside your kitchen and eat the stuff directly,” says Atsumu cheerfully. Osamu jabs an elbow into his side.

“Ignore him; I usually only let him out on the weekends,” he says, and Atsumu swings a leg out at him. “We just finished seeing a customer today. Anyway—table for two.”

Suna seats them at a table towards the middle and hands them menus. Right on cue, his parents come zooming out, and Suna dodges them just in time. They fuss over both of them, commenting on how _handsome_ both twins are, and _what do you mean you're both single!?_ , and how they’ve been _so helpful to Rintarou_ , and they’re _welcome any time, anything you’d like, just let us know!_ Suna has to shoo them away so he can finally take the twins’ orders.

After some minutes, he sets down two plates holding two skewers of dango each, another plate with six plump daifuku with red bean filling, a castella, a green tea ice cream sandwich, and two cups of hot green tea.

“I’m not exactly complaining, but you guys are gonna make yourselves sick,” he says. “I’m a sweet tooth too, but this is a lot.”

“Oh, quantity is _never_ a problem for us,” says Atsumu. Osamu has already happily picked up a skewer of dango. 

Suna hovers—hesitates. He wonders if it’d be weird if he just… pulled up a chair and sat down with them, relished for a while the company of people who had nothing to do with Seiji. It’s not like he and Osamu are strangers anymore, and though Suna and Atsumu had gotten off on an awkward footing, it has completely passed now. He’d shared food with them outside of the café, it wasn’t as though—

Ah, hell, he was thinking too much about this.

“Anyway, just call out if you need anything,” he says, and makes his way back into the kitchen. His parents seem to have stopped attempting interpretive dance. Maybe they’ll try ballroom, next.

Over the next half hour or so, two more customers come in to sit and eat. The Miya brothers order more tea and another serving of dango, which Suna serves with some trepidation. People with bottomless pits for stomachs are truly terrifying. Eventually, when they finish eating and head to the counter to pay, Suna’s mother takes their payment as Suna cleans up their table, listening to her happily making small talk with them.

“Thank you, see you soon!” his parents chime as the twins begin to make their way to the door. Suna stands up and smiles at them.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Everything was _really_ good,” says Atsumu happily. “I’m gonna kick this guy’s ass for not bringing me here sooner.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “If you were me, you would keep it a secret for as long as you could, too. Anyway, just wait outside for a bit, will you?”

“What for?”

“I just wanted a word with Suna.”

They both stare at him until Atsumu shrugs and steps outside. Osamu turns to Suna.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, and Suna tries to look blank.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he mutters back.

At this, Osamu simply raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. Suna holds eye contact for all of three seconds before he has to look away.

“It’s not _that_ obvious, is it?” he says, exasperated.

Osamu’s expression turns slightly impatient. “You know my work, Suna. I’ve picked up all sorts of clues. Did something happen? Wanna talk about it?”

“Yes, something did happen, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How about a distraction, then?”

“You’ve got a distraction?”

“Maybe? You can come by the store. There’s always something distracting there. Hm… we have a sort of wish-list from various customers. You know, people give us requests for items, and we see what we can do to get them. Most of the items are almost impossible, but you can see if there’s anything that interests you.”

Suna eyes him again, thoughtfully this time. “You know… that doesn’t sound bad. I’ll stop by after we close and clean up, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. I’ll see you then.”

“Thanks. See you.”

And Osamu takes his leave. Suna carries on cleaning up and straightening chairs and seeing to the other customers as usual. It’s neither busy nor bustling—their town isn’t exactly a tourist hot-spot, but sometimes they get people visiting in between their travels between Kobe and Kyoto or Osaka. As long as the café is doing well enough, Suna doesn’t usually mind the quieter days, but today, he wishes it were a little busier so he’d have more to do, less time to stand around and get stuck in his own messy thoughts. Hell, he’d even take on some of his parents’ nosy friends coming in for snacks and gossip—except, he’d probably just run away and hide out the back again, so maybe not.

When the last two painfully slow hours finally tick by, Suna takes in the sandwich board at exactly three o’clock and locks the front door, and then gets work stacking the chairs on top of the tables and cleaning the floor as quickly as he can. Evidently, his parents notice how eager he is to get out of there, because when he reaches for the bags of sugar on the kitchen countertop to put them away, his mother swats at his hands and his father yanks them away.

“Out! Shoo!” says his mother. “Go and see your friends!”

“How did you know?” says Suna indignantly.

“We saw you talking to Osamu-kun. And it usually takes you forever to clean the floor, but you broke all records today. Now, _shoo!_ ” And she actually begins to push him out of the kitchen and towards the door, only relenting when Suna protests that he needs to get changed first. That’s when he notices his father taking photos of them with his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, I thought this would be funny to post on the café’s Instagram.”

“ _Don’t put that on the Instagram!_ ”

When he finally arrives at the Miya’s store after almost half an hour (and spending a handful of minutes making sure his parents can’t post on the café’s Instagram account anymore), he’s wondering if it’d be weird if he just fell asleep on their couch.

“Jeez, you look tired,” says Osamu in lieu of a greeting when he pokes his head into the reception area and sees Suna. “Do you want to take a nap?”

“On your couch?”

“Well, no… but we have a back room you could use.”

Suna smiles dryly. “I’m okay. It’s just… parents and technology being a bad mix. Ever since I set up an Instagram account for the café, my father thinks it’s the best thing ever.”

“ _Ah_.” Osamu nods in understanding, gesturing for Suna to follow him to the back.

“Where’s Atsumu?”

“He finished up all his work, so he’s gone home for the day. I hang around in case of customer walk-ins.”

“Do you guys live together?”

“ _God_ , no! We already have to work together; we’d try to kill each other if we had to live together, too.” When Suna throws him a skeptical sort of look, Osamu smiles. “I’m exaggerating. Maybe. But it really is better for both of us that we live separately. ‘Tsumu lives about fifteen minutes walk from here, and I’m just the next station up.”

They walk into a large cramped room full of shelves lining the walls. Each shelf is packed with various bottles and pouches and boxes. A short filing cabinet sits in the corner, and a large round table stands in the middle of the room. 

“This is where we keep our smaller items,” says Osamu. “We keep larger stuff in a separate storage unit not too far from your café.”

“How do you… Is there a system you use to find things?”

“Does instinct count?”

“I guess?”

“We seperate stuff into categories.” Osamu points to the shelves. “Jewellery, medicinal, incorporeal-ish—that’s where we put stuff like your bottled moonlight and birdsong—homewares, art, music, non-magical, and miscellaneous. Each category has two shelves, and each row on each shelf is numbered. We label everything, and we write it all down.”

“Cool…” Suna wanders over to the shelf labelled INCORPOREAL (ETC) and squints at one of the rows with a jar and a label beside it that read ‘CRANE SONG’ and a Hello Kitty post-it note with ‘!!!!!’ stuck over the label. “Crane song? Cranes don’t have a nice call…”

Osamu snorts. “That’s what we thought, but we’ve got a couple who collects birdsongs and are interested in buying it. That’s what that Hello Kitty post-it note is for—reminds us that we can’t move it until they’ve seen it. Or, heard it, in this case.”

“Why Hello Kitty?”

“We ran out of Sumikko Gurashi last month.”

Suna grins. He continues wandering, eyes trailing the rest of the shelves. “Wow… a cat spirit’s flute… earrings that sense when it’s about to rain… I’ve never seen so many of these together before. Oh!” He turns to Osamu. “My bad, I got distracted. You wanted me to look at a request list?”

“I mean, I _did_ invite you over for distractions, right?” Osamu flips open a thin notebook lying on the table in the middle and points to a list of items written down. “We don’t actively take requests for items, and we never make promises on them—our request list usually just collects dust. We’re buyers and sellers, but not much more than that. These are the requests we’ve taken over the past year or so. Like I told you: most of these are close to impossible.”

Suna pulls the book towards him and eyes the list. “Adult mermaid blood,” he says flatly. “What kind of _idiot_ —”

“We don’t really give this list much of our time,” Osamu admits. “Personally, I’ve never actually dealt with adult mermaid blood before.”

“Right. Okay… Something that lets ordinary people see spirits—holy crap, these people are _nuts_. Don’t you have to give your eye to a demon for that? Were they hoping for a shortcut?”

“Like I said—”

“I get it, I get it.” Suna sighs and taps the page over one of the items. “Fabric-cutting scissors that never blunt. If you pay a weasel spirit their price, they can make these kinds of scissors. The price varies, though. Man… you get someone asking for immortality, and then you get someone wanting to cut stuff without worrying about it blunting…” He taps on another item. “This one: seventeen silk koto strings infused with moonlight. I can do that. I would need silk koto strings, though. Why moonlight?”

“When they’re infused with moonlight, they’re meant to sound better when played at night. I can buy silk koto strings. I’ll let you know when I’ve got them.”

“Sure. As for the scissors, I know a weasel spirit who lives in Ashiya who might be able to help. I can head over there this weekend and… What?” He notices Osamu staring at him with a small smile.

“That’s amazing. You talk about knowing spirits and such like they’re friends from high school or something.”

“Hah, I’ve been doing this a long time. I’m not promising anything, though.”

“No problem.” 

Now, it’s Suna’s turn to look at him with a slight smile. “Am I imagining things, or do you want to tell me something?”

“That’s…”

“I also pick up clues, sometimes. Well?”

Osamu folds his arms over his chest and half-sits on the edge of the table. “It’s just… you look better than you did when we saw you at the café.”

He feels better, Suna realises. He stares unseeingly at the list of items in front of him.

“I think,” he says slowly, “I like the fact that I can do things on my own terms again. You gave me the option of helping you out with this list, and, it’s true, it’s a good distraction, but I’m also doing it because I want to, not because I’m trying to make a good impression on someone. And I think… I haven’t _really_ felt that for a while.”

“It was that bad with your fiancé?”

“No,” says Suna immediately. “Yes. Sort of? It wasn’t all him, it was his family, mostly.” He stands and stretches with a sigh, taking his eyes off the list. “Isn’t getting emotionally invested in someone kind of tiring for you?”

“Is that what you’re calling friendship, now? Emotional investment?”

“Okay, that does sound pretty weird,” Suna admits. “But aren’t you?”

“I don’t know if I agree with the phrase, but… I guess I’m just trying to live a life of kindness.”

“What does that mean?”

“Trying to be kind where I can. I see my brother keeping his distance from people, and that works for him, but I realise I’m not really that type of person. I told you, I wear gloves so I don’t have to know more than I need to about people, but at the end of the day, if I can help someone heal in some way on my own terms… why not?”

Suna, too, half-sits on the table. They’re perpendicular to each other, facing away, and this suits him just fine. “If it makes you happy.”

“I think we’re all just trying to figure out what makes us happy. Some of us tie our happiness to other people. Some of us tie it to our own personal growth. For some, it’s to our own comfort. Who’s to say what’s right and what’s not?”

“Deep.”

“Is it?”

“Nah, not really. But it’s such a simple thing, and yet…” 

“You’re cynical.”

“Probably? I just think that if you don’t find a balance between making other people happy and making yourself happy, you’re gonna end up getting hurt.”

“Ah… you said your fiancé—”

“Ex-fiancé.”

“—your ex-fiancé always put everything aside to make his family happy.”

“Yeah. It was never a balance with him. If you keep giving yourself to other people without taking something back every now and then, there’s going to be nothing left of you.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about yourself, too. Not just him.”

Suna is quiet for a while, before he replies with, “Just don’t make the same mistakes he did.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t really expect to be getting life advice from you today.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

They both fall silent. Suna wonders if maybe he should be taking his leave, but he is oddly comfortable here. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s surrounded by items so closely resembling his own collection of curiosities, or if it’s because of Osamu, because of his small acts of kindness. Or, maybe it’s because everywhere else feels suffocating. He doesn’t want his parents to worry, he keeps putting up a front and telling people he’s fine, he’s gossip-fodder for the nosier people around town, and wherever he goes, it feels like eyes are always on him.

But Osamu has seen him at more lows than highs, and Suna hadn’t really had much of a chance to put up a front around him to begin with. And somehow, this hasn’t changed. Somehow, he is fine with surrendering to this. Maybe he was just tired of trying so hard for so long.

“If you can get the koto strings by this coming Monday, I’ll stop by to get those and to let you know what the weasel spirit wants in exchange for the scissors,” Suna says at last. He feels rather than hears Osamu stand away from the table.

“Sounds good,” he says. “As for your commission fees—”

Suna quirks a smile. “Ever the businessman.”

“I just want to make sure we’re doing this right. We are buyers and sellers, and we _are_ asking you for goods and service, after all. I’ll talk to ‘Tsumu first and give you a call later, if that’s okay?”

“Sure.” Suna stands, too.

“And let us know if you need anything from us in the meantime.”

“Today was already plenty,” says Suna, heading for the room’s exit. Osamu follows after him. “Thank you.”

“C’mon, stop,” says Osamu. “Stop being so formal. If we’re friends, there’s no need for it.”

There’s a funny but pleasant bit of warmth in Suna’s chest, even as he throws him an indignant look over his shoulder. “Says the one who keeps going on about commission fees!”

“This and that are _totally_ different things,” says Osamu as they make their way to the front door. “I can’t take our friendship for granted! But in any case, your parents already like me and you already had a battle of passive-aggressiveness with my brother, so I think that gives you the right to relax around us.”

“So what you’re saying is, I _can_ nap on those couches.”

“I would need to make up a story for customers who might see you, but yes, sure.”

They’re both snickering now. Suna is grateful. When he leaves, it’s a quick goodbye, a ‘See you on Monday’ from the both of them, and he likes this simplicity, he likes how easy it is between them. As Suna slowly makes his way home, he realises that the suffocating feeling that had been so constant in the past few weeks… isn’t quite so bad right now.

* * *

_where do i go when every ‘no’ turns into ‘maybe’?_

* * *

Monday comes and goes. Suna acts as the middle-man between the Miyas and the weasel spirit from Ashiya, trading a lovingly-made unbreakable ceramic bowl and a dozen mango daifuku for a pair of beautifully crafted steel scissors that would never blunt. Later, he infuses moonlight into seventeen koto strings and wraps them neatly into night-woven cotton. When he presents it to the Miyas, they both sigh in admiration.

“Thanks for this,” says Osamu at the same time as Atsumu saying “Holy _shit_ ” and leaning in to stare at the night fabric and then the koto strings in awe. Suna won’t lie—this is kind of nice for his ego.

The next handful of weeks leaves him in an odd sort of push and pull between his emotions. Some days are kinder to him, and he goes about his business with relative ease. Sometimes, small things will remind him of Seiji and he’ll have to take several minutes to hide out the back of the café or up in his room with his palms jammed against his eyes and the feeling of his ring finger and his wrist uncomfortably light and bare. Sometimes he has distractions, like his parents getting him to come up with a new menu item, or taking photos for the Instagram account and answering inquiries on Facebook, or tourists coming in and chatting with them and teaching him some new words in their language, or his parents sending him over to such-and-so friend’s place because they need help moving furniture, as if Suna was strong enough to lift a damn desk on his own. Sometimes, he has no distractions, and he is left replaying his and Seiji’s arguments over and over again in his head as he sweeps the café floor or washes the dishes. Sometimes, when it gets unbearable, he’ll visit the Miyas’ store after the café closes and see if there are things he can help out with. There usually isn’t anything—their request list isn’t updated frequently and he refuses to even contemplate the more outrageous items, but they’re happy to let him sit in one of the back rooms with a cup of tea if they have customers or even if Suna simply wants to. They don’t ask questions—Atsumu, maybe because he doesn’t want to get involved; Osamu, maybe because he can tell that Suna usually doesn’t want to talk about it.

He falls asleep sitting against the filing cabinet one day and is shaken awake by Atsumu.

“We’re closing up soon,” Atsumu says. “Gonna have to kick you out, unless you want to stay overnight.”

“Hhrmmh,” Suna answers, rubbing his eyes. “Holy crap, I was out for that long?”

“Yeah. I didn’t realise our carpet was so comfortable.”

“It’s not. I have pins and needles.” Suna begins to push himself up, and Atsumu snickers. 

“If you’d rather be here than at home, things must be pretty crappy, huh?”

They make their way out of the room and towards the front door, Suna limping and shaking out his legs. He looks at Atsumu. “You know about…?”

“Nope. I know almost nothing and it’s none of my business as far as I’m concerned.”

“Then…”

“‘Samu’s not the only one who picks up hints,” says Atsumu. “We’ve always been pretty observant, both of us. It’s what we do with the information that sets us apart.”

“That’s a very roundabout way of saying you don’t care.”

“It’s not that I don’t _care_ ,” says Atsumu indignantly. “It’s just… ‘Samu wears his heart on his sleeve, and I don’t.”

“Hm…”

“Anyway, my advice? Rather than hiding away from whatever’s going on with you? _Own it_.”

“Own it?”

“Yup!” Atsumu opens the front door for him with a flourish. “You don’t strike me as the type of guy who lets people walk all over him, so use that. Own it. Whatever people throw at you, throw it right back at them. All right, I gotta lock up, so out you go!”

“Where’s Osamu, anyway?” Suna asks, hovering between the doorframe.

“He’s meeting a potential buyer in Kobe. For one of your items, actually—they’re interested in the bowl with the moving kintsugi.”

“Oh… it’s a nice bowl.”

“It really is. The craftsmanship is superb.”

“I hope he gets a good price for it.”

“Suna?”

“Yes, Atsumu?”

“Get outta my store.”

Suna grins and steps outside. “See you soon.”

“Sure, buddy.”

And Suna makes his way home, thinking about Atsumu’s words the whole time. Was he really not the kind of person to let people walk all over him? Maybe. Depends on the other people, doesn’t it? He knew how to respect his elders when it mattered, and that was all well and good, but maybe that wasn’t really the point. Maybe that wasn’t what Atsumu meant. Maybe…

He keeps pondering it, but nothing really changes over the next week until one day, as he’s digging through his closet for his favourite t-shirt, he comes across a kimono he hasn’t worn in years and kind of forgot about: long and navy blue with a faint, even bamboo pattern, thin enough to look like pinstripes. His mother had bought it for him during a weekend trip to Nagoya with her sister and he had only worn it two or three times since. There was nothing wrong with it, he likes the pattern and it’s still in perfect condition, it’s just… he hadn’t really had many chances to wear traditional clothes until he moved back home, and this particular kimono, while not a formal one, is a little too nice to wear around the café whilst working.

Suna reaches into his closet again and pulls out a plain dark cool-grey haori and a maroon obi, and he holds them up beside each other. This was one of his favourite combinations.

_Hmm…_

Later, he calls Osamu.

“I’m going to Mount Inari this Sunday,” he says. “I was wondering if there’s anything you wanted me to get while I’m there?”

“Mount Inari?” Osamu echoes. “As in, Fushimi Inari Taisha in Kyoto?”

“Yeah. I haven’t been there in ages so I thought I’d visit and see what things I can find. I’m bringing some empty bottles and boxes and such. I don’t plan on hanging around after the sun sets, but if I see any spirits that I know, I want to say hi, too.”

“I don’t think we need anything, but I’ll check with ‘Tsumu. Would you mind if I came along with you? I actually haven’t been to Mount Inari or Fushimi-Inari Taisha before, can you believe it?”

“ _Seriously?_ Well, sure. Let’s meet outside the south exit of the JR Amagasaki station? Say, around… ten in the morning?”

“Sounds good.”

“Would Atsumu want to come along?”

“I think he has plans, but I’ll ask. I’ll see you on Sunday!”

Come Sunday morning, Suna dresses carefully in his dark blue kimono, dark grey haori, and maroon obi. He heads downstairs with a messenger bag in his hand, taking a box of mango daifuku and a box of green tea cookies he had made earlier in the morning from the counter and tucking both inside, nestled amongst some small boxes and glass bottles. The café is closed today, and his mother is reading the morning newspaper on one of the tables and snacking on some cashew nuts, a leisurely air about her. 

The leisurely air immediately disappears when she glances up, sees him, and squints suspiciously. “Why are you wearing a kimono? Outside of work, I usually have to _coerce_ you into wearing a kimono, so wh…” Her eyes widen. “Oh. _Oh!_ You’re going on a _date!_ ”

“Wh— _no_ ,” says Suna. “It’s not a date, I’m just— _what are you doing?!_ ”

But she’s already lunged over and began tugging and straightening his obi meticulously. “Oh, _please_ ,” she scoffs. “I dated _many_ nice boys before I married your father, do you really think I don’t know what preparing for a date looks like?”

“ _This isn’t a date!_ ”

She ignores him and adjusts his kimono’s collar. “Who are you going with? It’s Osamu-kun, isn’t it? Ah, I should’ve known his good looks were too much for you to handle.”

“ _What are you talking about?_ ” Suna splutters indignantly at her. She just rolls her eyes at him, tugging at his sleeves. “I’m dressed up because there are probably going to be a lot of tourists over there, so if they stop me for photos or whatever, I can tell them about the café! I’m taking some business cards with me and I’m advertising, that’s the only reason!”

“That’s lovely, dear. All right, now go get your shoes!”

“These _are_ my shoes.”

“You’re wearing _boots?_ ” His mother frowns disapprovingly. Suna gives her a pained look.

“I’m going up a _mountain_.”

“Hmm… that’s true. And I suppose this is more modern for you kids these days.”

“I’m not a kid,” says Suna indignantly.

“You’ll always be a kid to me, Rin-chan,” she says, smoothing out the shoulders of his haori. “Now, what’s the real reason you’re dressed nicely today, hmm?”

“I told you the reason. _Ow_.”

She flicks his forehead. Suna avoids her eyes and takes his time answering as she walks around him and lifts his haori so she can adjust the back of his obi. 

“No matter where I go around here, people keep staring at me,” he murmurs. “Half of them know what happened. Or, they think they know, anyway. ‘ _Oh, that poor Suna Rintarou_.’ So… if they’re gonna keep staring at me, then I’ll give them something to look at. They can stare all they like, and this time, it’ll be because I want them to.”

His mother gives one last tug of his obi before lowering his haori and straightening out the shoulders a second time. 

“I thought you wouldn’t want to go back to Kyoto,” she says softly. 

“I don’t want to keep avoiding a place, even if it gives me bad memories. Kyoto was nice, otherwise. And I liked Mount Inari. I guess this is me trying to move on.”

His mother’s hands still at his shoulders. After a while, she gives them a pat and walks back around so she’s facing him again, and this time, she has a proud smile on her face. 

“All right, you look perfect… aside from your boots. _Anyway_. Off you go, then. Have fun on your date!”

“ _It’s not a date!_ ” Suna protests. His mother just beams, stands on tiptoes and pulls him down so she can kiss his forehead, and then unceremoniously shoves him out the door. Suna rolls his eyes, shoulders his bag, and begins making his way to the station.

People stare as he walks past. He holds his head high and keeps his back straight. 

_Hello, Rintarou-kun! You look so nice today! Where are you off to? Oh, you look so handsome!_

They call out; he replies with smiles. The light wind makes his haori flutter behind him. It feels good.

He reaches the station to find Osamu already there, and Suna realises that he has never seen Osamu in casual clothes before. Today, he is wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a light cardigan, with his usual black leather gloves and sporting a medium-sized backpack. He glances up as Suna nears and his eyes widen.

“Holy shit, you look good,” says Osamu. “What’s the occasion?”

“I’m advertising for the café,” says Suna. “We had new business cards printed, so if people stop me to talk or ask for photos, I can tell them about it.”

“Should I have dressed up too?”

Suna stares at him, expression frozen “I… didn’t think about that.”

Osamu grins. “It’s fine. I can hold your bag whenever you have to pose. Let’s go!”

They make their way to their train platform, but Suna frowns. “No, I didn’t think about it, but that’s a really good idea… two of us dressing up would’ve gotten even more attention! _Dammit!_ ”

Osamu smothers a laugh. “Maybe next time. We can colour co-ordinate. Or is that weird?”

“We could make it work. Maybe Atsumu can join in.”

“Now _that_ is overkill.”

“There’s no such thing as overkill when it comes to advertising.”

“I don’t know if that’s the way it works…”

It’s easy, comfortable company. Throughout their hour-long trip to Fushimi Inari Taisha, Osamu tells him about some of the Miyas’ more memorable sales, about successfully selling the bowl with the streams of moving kintsugi the other day, the mischief he and Atsumu used to get up to when they were younger, his love of food. Suna tells him about some of his travels overseas, about his parents opening the café when he was eight, how he likes taking too many photos on his phone and that he’s considering saving up for a proper camera. He also tells Osamu that he used to live in Kyoto.

“Then, the river stone was from Kyoto, too?” Osamu asks. Suna nods. “Oh… that explains your reaction, then.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary to know, that’s why I didn’t tell—”

“You don’t have to justify it,” says Osamu quietly, and Suna exhales.

“Right,” he says. “Right. Okay."

“So… Mount Inari. What are you hoping to find?”

“Anything, really. Some medicinal stuff? Even just walking around would be nice. But let’s not stay past sundown. The spirits are a lot more active when it gets dark. I’ve never had problems, but just in case…”

“I’m not exactly keen to get spirited away, either. God knows Atsumu would find some way to hunt me down and give me an earful. Any time you’re ready to go, just say so.”

They change trains at Kyoto station and their last train pulls into Inari station a few minutes later. They step out and exit amongst the throngs of people also keen to visit Fushimi Inari Taisha. Here and there are women also dressed in traditional wear, but they don’t see any men doing so, and apparently this makes Suna stand out. As he and Osamu cross the road and head towards the giant torii gates at the entrance of the shrine, Suna soon gets stopped by tourists for photos. Putting on his best charming smile, he obliges, and then offers them business cards to the café and invites them to visit. 

Whilst holding Suna’s bag, Osamu is also snapping photos of the giant torii gates.

“Wait, don’t move,” he calls out after Suna is done with the tourists. “I wanna send a photo to your parents.”

“Why?” Suna calls back, but he stands before the gates as Osamu takes the photos. Some other people take photos of him, too.

“Because they’ve been nice to me, and of course they’ll want a picture of their son all dressed up here. Also, I’m LINE friends with your dad.”

“ _You’re WHAT?_ ”

“Okay, I’m done. Let’s go.”

“ _When did you add him on LINE?_ ”

“Last month or so? Keep yelling, by the way—you’re right: there’s no such thing as overkill in advertising.”

Suna gawks at him indignantly. With a wide grin, Osamu drops his bag back into his hands, spins Suna around, and marches him through the torii gates and towards the shrine.

It’s a nice day—breezy and on the cooler side, but with a long walk ahead of them that’s sure to work up a sweat, Suna won’t complain. In between getting stopped for photos and promoting the café, he and Osamu chat and joke and banter and bicker as they walk side by side through the mountain trails, over countless steps, through the tunnels and tunnels of brilliant orange torii gates. 

Easy, comfortable company. Suna doesn’t realise how much he has missed this until he becomes aware that he hasn’t stopped smiling since they arrived.

At one point, during a quieter spot along the trail, Suna falls back a few steps. He pulls his phone from his bag and takes a photo of Osamu, walking ahead. In the photo, Osamu is gazing off to the side, a look of serene wonder on his face. He is framed by orange torii gates, and a stream of early afternoon sunlight peeking through the gaps between them catches his shoulder. It’s a nice photo; Suna can use this for Osamu’s profile picture in his list of phone contacts.

At the sound of Suna’s phone camera’s shutter going off, Osamu turns around. “Should I charge for that?”

Suna tucks his phone back into his bag and falls into step beside him again. “This is for my parents too, as revenge. Oh! Hold up.”

Osamu turns to see him leaning in to study a patch of honey-coloured sap on a nearby tree. Suna dabs a tiny bit with his pinky finger and licks it experimentally. “Yup, this type of tree sap is medicinal. It can fully heal small wounds in a day.” He digs into his bag and pulls out two tiny jars and a pocketknife, and then holds out his bag to Osamu. “Can you hold this?”

“Tell me you’ve done this before,” says Osamu, taking the bag. “How do you know it’s medicinal?”

Suna flicks his pocketknife open and bends down to carefully scrape the sap into the jar. “I recognise the tree and the taste of the sap. A fox spirit taught me. I usually leave a jar for my parents in case they hurt themselves at the café. I’m running low, though.”

“How does it taste?”

“This particular type is mostly bitter and smoky. Here.” Suna holds out a tiny bit on his knife to him. Osamu pulls off one of his gloves and dabs a bit onto his pinky finger to sample it. His face changes from curious to disgusted.

“ _Plergh!_ ”

Suna cracks up laughing. “I _did_ say bitter.”

“You didn’t say _how_ bitter. Augh!” Osamu grabs a water bottle out of his own bag and chugs it, with Suna cackling the whole time. “It’s not _that_ funny!” But he doesn’t sound annoyed at all. This would be the first time in the few months they have known each other that he has seen Suna laugh like this, and this thought makes Suna sober up a little. He hastily turns his attention back to the tree sap.

“Okay, I have enough,” he says as he seals the jars and wipes his knife with a tissue. “Did you want another taste?”

“Don’t ask me that ever again.”

They continue walking, Suna sometimes stopping to observe some plants, squinting when he thinks he’s seen a spirit dash out of sight, sharing the snacks he’s brought, and obliging requests for photos and handing out business cards for the café. Occasionally, when they reach a section that’s empty of other visitors, Suna will grab Osamu’s arm and pull him off the trail and onto secret paths. Once, they interrupt a cat spirit’s nap, but the cat is mollified by Suna offering her two green tea cookies, a mango daifuku, and some dried herbs for stomach pains, and in exchange gifts him a small round bell that, when rung in the presence of food that had gone bad, would have a dull chime. Later, they chance upon the nest of an unusually large family of sparrows who happily sing together and allow Suna to bottle their birdsong, and Suna leaves a handful of cookies for them. On one other secret path, they find a patch of weeds with pink flowers that, when drunk as a tea, was good for alleviating stubbornly itchy throats.

Osamu hangs back to watch Suna work. He sometimes asks questions, but not as often as Suna would expect. He supposes, for Osamu’s line of work, there’s already a lot regarding magic items that he already knows about. 

“I think we’re almost at the top,” says Suna, peering up at the path ahead of them. When Osamu doesn’t reply, he looks over his shoulder. Osamu is staring behind them, frowning. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“It’s too quiet,” says Osamu. “It was full of people just a few minutes ago, but I can’t hear anyone now. And the sun, it’s _setting_. We’ve only been here about two hours.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, and his eyes widen. “It’s… six o’clock?”

“ _What?_ ” says Suna. “We got here at midday, how…” 

He goes still. Realisation. Something is very wrong. The mountain had its secrets and Suna knew only some of them. The path around them seems to ripple, and somehow, Osamu suddenly feels too far away. Suna rushes towards him.

“ _Osamu_ —”

Something small and fast flies out from between the nearby torii gates and strikes Osamu’s temple, grazing him and causing him to yell in pain and surprise. There’s a high-pitched animalistic sort of shriek, nothing Suna recognises. It flies around them in wild circles, too quick for them to see what it is. Heart beating fast, Suna grabs Osamu’s arm, still trying to see what the _thing_ is.

“Are you okay? We have to get out of—”

“Suna…” Osamu begins, his voice slurred. Suna looks at him just in time to see Osamu’s eyes roll back, and he slumps sideways.

“ _Osamu!_ ” Suna half-grabs, half-catches him as he collapses, unconscious. Struggling under Osamu’s weight, Suna sinks awkwardly to his knees as he cradles him close. The high-pitched shrieking has increased and there are more of the things now, deafening.

“ _He is cursed! His hands are cursed! Rip them off! Rip his hands off!_ ”

One spirit latches onto Osamu’s arm. Without thinking, Suna grabs it—vaguely humanoid with sickly blue-grey skin and only about the size of his hand—and hurls it into the trees somewhere. Somewhere amidst the panic, he vaguely realises that night has fallen—it had been sunset just a short while ago. The lamps amongst the torii gates have turned on, but it is hard to see the spirits. There is more shrieking, louder and more frenzied. Another spirit grabs the collar of Osamu’s cardigan; Suna yanks it away as hard as he can, tearing the fabric. Another pulls one of Osamu’s gloves off; Suna tries to grab it back, but misses. In his split second of distraction, yet another attacks Osamu’s other hand, tearing that glove and sinking its teeth into his palm; Suna swats it away furiously. One latches onto his own hand, and he can feel its sharp teeth, he can feel himself bleeding. There are too many. He can’t fight them all off…

The air changes. The path ripples. The lamps flicker. There is a thundering bark, and the frenzied shrieking is now that of fear. The spirits flapping around in the air start to fly away, but—

“ _You wretches! This mountain will never be yours!_ ”

A giant seven-tailed fox the size of a horse suddenly jumps into view, snatching the spirits from the air and crushing them in his strong jaws. With a flick of his head, he sends several of them flying into the foliage, broken. The ones still hanging onto Suna and Osamu let go and try to escape, but the fox bites down on three of them in one go. The screeches of those spirits suddenly cease. The few that are lucky enough to escape zip off into the trees, their shrieks fading into the distance.

Then, there is stillness. Suna’s heart is beating hard enough and loud enough that it makes him light-headed. The fox is finishing his meal of the spirits. Once he is done, licking his lips, he turns to Suna and Osamu.

“Rintarou,” says the fox in calm greeting.

“Oomimi-san,” Suna mumbles faintly. 

The fox—Oomimi—steps towards them and presses his forehead to Osamu’s.

“Hmm… he is fine. Sleeping. He will wake soon.” Oomimi raises his head to look at Suna’s hands. “You are bleeding.”

“Oh… it’s not too bad. I got some medicinal tree sap earlier—the one you taught me about.” Fumbling, Suna manages to pull Osamu’s backpack off him and sets it and his own messenger bag aside. Then, he gently sets Osamu down onto the path, takes off his haori, rolls it up, and slips it under Osamu’s head as a makeshift pillow. Somehow, Suna’s clothes were not torn during that ordeal, but he can feel his sleeves being smudged with blood. He digs into his bag for some tissues to wipe off the blood from his skin, and then dabs some of the tree sap from one of the jars against the wounds. There is a pleasant tingly sort of sensation. He gingerly pulls off Osamu’s remaining torn glove, rolls it up and tucks it into his messenger bag, and turns to tend to the wounds on Osamu’s hands and his temple. All this time, Oomimi is watching them in silence. Suna looks up at him.

“Thank you, Oomimi-san,” he murmurs. “You came just in time.”

“I should thank you, instead. Those were night imps, and they like to hide, but your presence drew them out and made it easier for me to hunt. Which reminds me—what in the name of Inari-sama are you doing here at this time of night, Rintarou?”

Suna shakes his head. “It was early afternoon, but we must have taken a wrong path… when we looked up, it was sundown, and then it became night in just a few minutes. I don’t know what happened.”

Oomimi makes a displeased ‘ _tch_ ’ sound. “Those night imps are interfering with the trails again. They are a nuisance more than anything, but in numbers, they can cause greater trouble. They don’t usually live on this mountain, but every now and then, we have infestations, and we must get rid of them… they don’t taste very good, though.” He steps close, circles them, and then lays down on the ground around them, tucking his tails around Osamu like a blanket. “I will stay with you until your friend wakes, just in case.”

Suna rests his hand against the fur on his neck. “Thank you. It’s good to see you again, Oomimi-san.”

“And you, Rintarou. It has been a year, I believe.” Oomimi tilts his head, now eyeing Osamu. Suna follows his gaze. “I don’t like to admit it, but the imps were right—his hands _are_ cursed.”

“Are they?”

“I do not know what it is, but he has a power that he cannot control. He hides it with gloves. Is that not a curse?”

Suna leans against Oomimi, feeling his even breathing. “When you put it that way…”

Oomimi lays his head on the ground. “And what brings you to the mountain today, Rintarou?”

“I wanted to visit. I haven’t been here in a while.”

“When you were here last year, you were deeply unhappy. Today, something is different about you. What happened? This man is not the one you were engaged to.”

Somehow, Suna is perfectly calm at the thought of Seiji. No ache in his chest, no uncomfortable swoop in his stomach, no discomfort. He supposes Osamu suddenly passing out in front of him and then getting attacked by night imps and having the daylights frightened out of him—almost literally if he thinks about it, looking up at the night sky—may have shifted his perception of things a little. He feels exhausted.

“This is Osamu, a friend I met. Seiji is the one I was engaged to. He and I ended our relationship.”

“Oh?”

“You know about our constant fighting and the fact that I wasn’t getting along with his parents. I realised that we couldn’t keep going anymore. It’s now been almost three months since I left Kyoto.”

“And do you regret ending it?”

Suna is quiet for a while, inhaling and exhaling very slowly. He lightly touches the medicinal sap on his hand, still damp and gooey. Right now the night is peaceful. In the distance, he can hear the hooting of owls, the rustling of trees, the chattering of other animals. With his haori being used as Osamu’s pillow, it would be cool, but pressed against Oomimi, he is warm. Easy, comfortable company.

“No, I don’t regret walking away,” he says at last. He rests his head against Oomimi and closes his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about that since I left. I don’t regret being with him, and I don’t regret leaving, either. In the end, it was for the best, and I’m starting to make my peace with it. I’m… learning what it means to be happy.”

Oomimi sighs, and his voice is gentle when he says, “You will find that happiness again. You already are. You look happier than when I saw you a year ago.”

“You’re not the first to tell me something like that. I’m trying to move on, but… it feels so _slow_.”

“Because you are impatient. You often are.”

“You’re also not the first to tell me to be more patient.”

Oomimi snorts. “Is there a day—a _deadline_ , as you humans call it—before which you must be happy again? Or is it a path more winding and more uncertain but just as beautiful as the trails around this mountain?”

“You don’t really give me a choice, you know…”

“Hm! I don’t need to with such an obvious answer.” Oomimi raises his head and yawns comfortably. Suna sits up with a groan and reaches into his bag for his phone. Almost ten o’clock. 

“Damn… we have to get going. The night imps really messed up the day for us. We lost a lot of hours.” He turns to Osamu and gently shakes his shoulder. “Osamu? Osamu, wake up.”

He continues shaking him until Osamu stirs and mumbles in groggy protest. His eyes open slightly and he blinks several times in the light of the lamps. He squints at Suna and Oomimi, closes his eyes hard, opens them to stare again, and then he groans. “Oh… I’m not dreaming. Am I? That’s a giant fox. Is that a giant fox?”

Oomimi snorts again. 

“How are you feeling?” Suna asks.

“Like I’ve been asleep for ten years. What happened?"

“I’ll explain everything on the way back. Can you get up?” With Suna’s help, Osamu sits upright. Suna inspects the bite wounds on his bare hand and then the graze on his temple, and then reaches into his bag to pull out some bandaids. “The bleeding’s stopped but it’s too soon to tell if the sap is working, so I’m gonna put these on. They’re to keep the sap from smudging everywhere and to make your wounds less obvious since we still need to take the train home.”

“Bleeding? Sap? Wounds?”

“Yup.”

As he applies the bandaids to Osamu’s wounds and his own, Oomimi has taken to pacing back and forth, calm but alert.

“I hope you know,” Osamu murmurs, “that this is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me.”

“If you can stand, then stand,” says Oomimi. “You both need to leave, and soon. The night imps won’t hurt you while I’m here, but I can smell a group of them nearby. We are near the top of the mountain, so it’ll be quicker for me to give you a ride back down.”

“I take it back,” says Osamu. “Things just got weirder.”

“Are you sure?” Suna asks Oomimi. “There’s two of us.”

“We’ll be fine. But I remember the first time we did this and you fell right off, so try not to let that happen again.”

“You promised you’d never bring that up!”

“I _said_ I’d never bring it up around the others again.”

Suna helps Osamu to his feet and then grabs both their bags off the ground. Osamu pulls his backpack on, and Suna shoulders his now-crumpled haori and his messenger bag again. Oomimi patiently lies down on the ground and Suna climbs onto his back with Osamu following and wrapping his arms around Suna’s waist awkwardly with a muttered, “Sorry about this.”

“Ready?” says Oomimi. “Whatever you do, do not let go.”

“Please don’t go too fast,” says Suna.

“We both have different definitions of ‘fast’, Rintarou.” 

And Oomimi sets off down the path in an even canter with the wind whistling around them. Suna grips handfuls of his fur for dear life and Osamu holds onto Suna so tight that Suna thinks he may have bruised his ribcage. The orange of the torii gates in the lamps’ light are a blur as they streak past. He thinks he can see the paths rippling beneath them, but it’s hard to tell in the night and at this speed.

In what feels like mere seconds, Oomimi comes to a stop. Both Suna and Osamu are frozen in place and don’t dare move until Oomimi clears his throat pointedly, and Osamu gradually releases his vice-like grip around Suna’s waist.

“Slow enough for you, Rintarou?”

“Great,” Suna wheezes. 

“I will leave you here, now,” says Oomimi. “We are nearly at the end. Follow this trail, and it will take you to the main shrine. Do not take any turns, and do not take any more secret paths tonight.”

“Understood,” says Suna. “We’ve had enough of an adventure for today.” 

Osamu gives a winded sort of grunt and unsteadily slides off Oomimi’s back. Suna follows him. Oomimi watches them, eyeing Osamu.

“Though I don’t think the other spirits would have problems with your hands,” he says, and Osamu looks at him, startled, “you shouldn’t visit here for a while, at least until we’ve gotten rid of the night imps. By the winter, it should be safe. For now, you’ll feel drowsy, but that should wear off by the morning.”

“Um,” says Osamu. “Thank you?”

“All right,” says Suna. And then, Oomimi lowers his head and Suna presses his forehead to his and says softly, “Thank you for everything. Please give my regards to everyone.”

“I will,” says Oomimi. “Be well, Rintarou.”

“You too, Oomimi-san.”

And with that, Oomimi turns and hurries back up the path, his seven tails swishing behind him. The night soon swallows him up. There is silence.

The grounds of the shrine are empty. With one hand clamped firmly around Osamu’s wrist, Suna hurries them towards Inari station, giving him an explanation of everything that had happened. Osamu looks like he has a thousand questions, but he keeps quiet as Suna talks all the way from Inari station to Kyoto station, where, after a twenty-minute wait, they board their second train home and practically slump into two free seats in the corner of the carriage. Osamu seems to finally notice the dried blood on the sleeve of his cardigan, because he takes it off and stuffs it into his backpack. Suna vaguely notes that there is dried blood on his own haori’s sleeve, but it’s hard to see against the dark grey fabric, so he leaves it be. People are staring, and he supposes they are quite a sight, especially with Suna still wearing traditional clothes at this time of night, but he ignores them.

“Can I lean on you?” Osamu whispers a few minutes after the train pulls out of Kyoto station. He’s already half-leaning and blinking sleepily. He won’t last the whole trip back, and they still have a while to go.

“Of course,” Suna whispers back, straightening up in his seat so he has more height for him. The moment Osamu rests his head against Suna’s shoulder, he relaxes, exhaling comfortably. By his even breathing, he might have fallen asleep right away. It’s a nice sort of weight. Part of Suna wants to nap too, but, his head is too full, mind too awake, thinking of every detail that had happened today: the spirits they had met, the items he had collected, the secret paths they had taken, the cold fear of realising Osamu was in danger, Osamu’s unconscious weight as Suna tried to protect him from the attacking imps, the sheer relief of seeing Oomimi thundering into view.

Had Suna been reckless? Had he been so keen on exploring the mountain and _moving on_ and reclaiming the places that had initially held painful memories for him, that he had made a mistake somewhere and led to them being attacked? What if Oomimi hadn’t come to save them? What if something else had happened to Osamu? What if—

The train announces the approaching Amagasaki station, and Suna looks up with a jump. His jumbled thoughts had been a little too good at passing the time—it reminds him uncomfortably of being on the mountain amidst the night imps’ mischief. Shaking his head, he nudges Osamu awake, half-pulling him up and off the carriage when the train comes to a stop.

Suna hadn’t really thought about their next step. He didn’t know where Osamu lived and his own place was another station down, but they were already off the train. He turns to Osamu, who is rubbing his eyes.

“The store,” Osamu mutters. “I’ll crash there for the night, it’s not far from here. I’m sorry, I feel like I’m about to fall asleep standing up.”

“I’ll stay with you,” says Suna. “I think you’ll be okay, but I want to keep an eye on you, just in case.”

It only takes them a few minutes to reach the store. Suna takes Osamu’s keys from him to open the door, and they both stagger inside. Once they reach the reception area, they pull off their shoes, and Osamu starts snickering.

“I just realised,” he says when Suna gives him a questioning look, “you can finally sleep on these couches.”

Suna stares at the two worn beige couches in the room, and maybe everything about today has caught up to him, maybe he’s just too damn tired, because uncontrollable hysterical laughter bubbles up in his chest, and he soon collapses onto one of the couches, gasping for breath and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Osamu lies down on the other couch, smiling sleepily.

“C’mon, stop,” he says. “It’s not that funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Suna wheezes. “I can’t— _god_ , shit—”

Osamu lets him carry on for a little while longer, but eventually, Suna feels a tug on his haori and he sees Osamu has reached over and gently grabbed onto the hem. His eyes are closed. This calms Suna down and his laughter peters off until he is quiet.

“Goodnight, Osamu,” he says.

“G’night, Suna,” Osamu murmurs, and he lets go. Suna leans over to push Osamu’s arm back to his side, and then takes off his haori to drape it over him as a makeshift blanket. Then, he, too, lies back down on his couch and finally closes his eyes.

* * *

Suna doesn’t remember drifting off to sleep, but he must have, because he wakes up to Osamu gently shaking him awake. Suna jams his palms against his eyes and groans.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“A bit before half past six,” says Osamu. “I really didn’t dream everything that happened yesterday, huh?”

“You definitely did not. How do you feel?” 

“Fine, now. No more weird drowsiness.”

“Good. Let me see your head. Your hand, too.”

“You’ve barely got your eyes open! Slow down.”

It takes Suna another minute to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and muttering about his stiff neck the whole time. Osamu is watching him with a _fond_ smile and he has Suna’s haori draped over his shoulders, and Suna can’t help but feel a pleasant sort of warmth in his chest. Things were different now, and he supposes that’s to be expected after the events of yesterday.

Suna reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out Osamu’s glove. “The night imps stole the other one and tore this one. Here, the inner wrist. I can try sewing it together, if you want? But it’s leather, so there’s probably not much I can do. And the other one’s gone, so…”

“Oh… yeah, if you could. Thanks. I have other pairs, but this one was my favourite… they’re a bit more breathable than my other gloves, which helps in the hot weather. I have white cotton gloves, but I don’t really like how they look… Sorry, I’m hungry and still a bit tired, so I’m rambling.”

“It’s fine. Come here, let me see,” says Suna, setting the glove on the table. He leans in to carefully peel off the bandaid on Osamu’s temple and inspects the graze. “Yeah, that looks good, no inflammation. Just give that a gentle clean and re-apply some of that tree sap—remember? That—”

“That really, really, really bitter one. Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“Apply some of that and then leave it for another day. Do the same for your hand. I’ll give you one of the jars I took.”

Osamu points to Suna’s own hand. “How’s yours?”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll do the same. I’ve had worse, honestly. It’s not like I actively go out and find trouble, but sometimes it finds _me_ instead.”

“Never a dull moment with you, huh?”

Suna just looks away and shrugs. Osamu tilts his head to the side and squints at him. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to say something reeeally stupid?”

“ _Hey_.”

“Oh! So I’m not wrong.” Osamu leans back against the couch with a smug little smile on his face. “Out with it, then. Wait! Let me guess, first: you’re sorry about—”

“Don’t—”

“—everything that happened to me yesterday. You should’ve—”

“Stop—” 

“—known better, and you should have been—”

“ _Osamu_ —”

“—more careful, right? Wow, I didn’t realise your real name was ‘Inari’ and that you’re actually the god of the mountain and in charge of everything that happens up there!”

Suna stands up. “I’m leaving.” 

“I’ve still got your haori, and you still need to give me some of that tree sap.” Osamu springs up to grab Suna’s bag off the floor and plants it stubbornly in his lap when he sits back down. Suna’s lip curls into a snarl.

“What do you _want?_ ” he snaps, and it’s a sour feeling, a sharp reminder of arguments past.

“I want you to stop trying to find blame when there isn’t any. Sometimes it has nothing to do with blame. Nothing about yesterday was your fault.”

“I’m the one who dragged you up there—”

“Oh my god, I was right,” Osamu mutters under his breath. “ _I asked to go with you_ , remember?”

“If we hadn’t gone off on all those secret paths—”

“You really think spirits that wanted to rip my hands off would’ve cared if we strayed off the main trails or not?”

“I know how the mountain can be sometimes, but I was still unprepared—”

“You know all the secrets of the mountain?”

“No, but—”

“Then why are you acting otherwise? Like you could’ve predicted everything that happened? Like you’re some… _god_ or messenger of Inari—”

“I’m not _acting like_ —”

“ _You are not my protector_.” Osamu stands now, meeting him at eye-level, and Suna finds he can’t look away. “You’re putting all this responsibility on yourself, and it doesn’t make sense! The mountain is _alive_ and it’s years and _years_ old, and you’re disrespecting it by thinking that you’ll ever know enough about it to protect me. Me, or anyone else you bring to it.” He takes a deep breath and continues in a gentler voice: “You are someone who can see and interact with spirits and with magic, but you’re not a god or a messenger of one. You’re… _you_. You’re human. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just fact. So… stop _blaming_ yourself, because there’s nothing _to blame._ Blame has nothing to do with anything that happened yesterday.” And then, even quieter: “Don’t be so arrogant to think that any of this was your fault.”

Suna doesn’t realise how tense his whole body is until he sees Osamu exhale slowly, and he follows, looking away. Osamu finally relinquishes his hold on Suna’s bag and places it onto the table.

“Give me a minute,” he says, and he hurries towards the back rooms. Suna can hear some shuffling and rummaging, and then Osamu reappears holding a long white garment bag, inside of which Suna can see a dark suit. “Here. ‘Tsumu and I usually have an extra suit on standby, just in case. You can borrow this.”

“What for?”

“If you go out in yesterday’s clothes like that and people see you, they’ll talk. But if you’re wearing something else, there’s nothing to say. ‘Tsumu and I have broader shoulders than you though, so the jacket might be too big, but if you just wear the shirt and pants, it shouldn’t be so obvious.” Osamu lays it down on the couch, and then pulls off his haori still hanging onto his shoulders, laying that carefully on top of the garment bag. “You can get changed here. I’m going to head home. I need a shower, I feel disgusting. Just set the deadlock on the door and close it behind you when you leave, will you?”

“Osamu—”

Osamu scoops his backpack into his arms. “It’s probably too early to run into ‘Tsumu, but just in case you do, tell him I’ll explain everything later. I’ll see you soon.”

“Hey—”

Without another look, Osamu heads for the front door. Suna hears it open and shut, the bell’s chime ringing as it always does until the room falls silent. Still.

Unfamiliar.

Suna had never been in here without at least one of the Miya twins nearby, and right now, it feels like a completely different space. No bickering between the twins, none of the playful banter between himself and Atsumu, none of Osamu’s warmth as he and Suna explain such-and-so curiosities to each other and swap stories. Since the very first time he had set foot into this store, he feels like a stranger again.

He opens the garment bag, strips off his kimono—spots more dried blood on the sleeve that he hadn’t noticed—and gets changed into the suit. Osamu is right, the jacket is too big, but the rest fit well enough. He remembers he was meant to give Osamu a jar of tree sap, so he leaves that beside the garment bag on the table. He loosely folds up his kimono and haori and drapes them over his arm, tucks Osamu’s glove into his messenger bag and shoulders it, and then leaves the store, locking the door behind him.

* * *

_god, i just want to lay down  
these colours make my eyes hurt_

* * *

It’s not until three days later, leaning beside the window in his room at almost ten o’clock, that Suna calls Osamu. He has his earphones plugged in so his hands are free and he is weaving night into some black cotton, patiently, patiently.

“Hello?” Osamu answers.

“Hey. Is this a bad time?”

“Nope, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Suna mumbles. “Just wanted to chat. I sewed up the rip in your glove.”

“Oh, thanks! I’ll grab it next time I stop by the café.”

“Sure.”

“That’s not all you’re calling for, right? If you’re trying to apologise, I’m hanging up.” But there’s a lightheartedness in Osamu's voice that makes Suna crack a smile.

“You said there’s nobody to blame, so… I don’t need to apologise for anything, right?”

Osamu gives a huff of laughter. “That’s right. But I already knew you weren’t feeling so guilty anymore. The jar of tree sap you left—I had to touch it with my bare hands.”

“Oh.”

“That stuff is amazing, by the way. I don’t even have any scars.”

“It really is. It’s rare, though. I've only ever seen one other tree on Mount Inari.”

“We got lucky, huh?”

“Yeah, we did.”

“I’ll drop off the jar next time I see you, too.”

“Okay.”

Suna stops weaving, now staring unseeingly outside. The three days since they last talked feels like months, somehow. What happened at Mount Inari feels like a long-ago dream. Between then and now, he has had a lot of time to think, a lot of time to get his head straight…

A lot of time to forgive.

“Thank you,” says Suna quietly. “For everything.” There’s a lot he wants to say, but, try as he might, he can’t find the words. He’s not sure he ever will. He had tried protecting Osamu up on the mountain, but ever since the first day they had met, it seemed like Osamu was the one constantly saving him. 

“Did you have fun?” asks Osamu. 

“Yeah, I did. And… I’d like to go again sometime. Maybe you could come with me?”

“Of course. Your fox friend said the winter should be safe. You never explained him, by the way.”

“That’s a long story. Got some time?”

“Sure! Let me just grab a beer”—Suna hears the sound of a fridge being pulled open—“and some rice crackers. I’m gonna get nice and settled in.”

“It’s not _that_ long,” says Suna with a laugh.

“But you always have stories.”

“That’s true.”

“Okay, I am comfortable. Go for it. So, how did you guys meet?”

And Suna picks up his night weaving again and begins to tell him as he crafts.

* * *

_so what do i do with this?_  
_this stray italian greyhound_  
_these inconvenient fireworks_  
_this ice-cream-covered screaming hyperactive thought_

* * *

And the days go on.

  
Picture the following:

Suna, on a quick errand for the café, and he is accompanied by the Miya twins who had stopped by for some snacks and insisted they would walk with him halfway after they’d finished eating. The three of them together must look like quite a sight: Suna in a casual black kimono with an amber-coloured obi and a light grey haori, Osamu in a white button-up shirt and dark grey suit pants with the matching jacket draped over his arm, and Atsumu in a white t-shirt and black blazer with dark blue jeans. The twins flank Suna on either side, bickering not-very-quietly with each other around him, and it makes him laugh. He suspects that sometimes, they try to make him laugh on purpose. People stared as they walk down the street, and Suna is fine with them staring. This feels good.

Picture this, too:

Suna sometimes hanging out at the Miyas’ store because they are comfortable company, and he is not a stranger. Sometimes, he’ll sit in the storage room at the back as Osamu handles a transaction with a customer, and sometimes Atsumu will be in the storage room too, checking on the items, and he’ll somewhat automatically step over Suna, who is scrolling through his phone and hunched up beside the filing cabinet.

And this: 

Osamu dragging Suna over to that Indian restaurant near the Miyas’ store that he had mentioned ages ago, and Suna falling in love with their chicken tikka masala. The owners delightedly chat with Osamu, who is apparently a regular and had helped them sell some antiques in the past, and they give them extra naan on top of their order for free.

The twins stopping by the café and introducing the occasional associate of theirs, and Suna will recommend the izakaya a few streets away that always perfectly cooked their skewers, or the Italian place in the opposite direction that had generous servings, or that all-you-can-eat okonomiyaki place near the station, and each time, they’ll drag him out to go eat with them, too. 

Suna taking a trip with Osamu to Osaka to inspect an antique cabinet that turned out to be a cleverly made fake. While in Osaka, they lunch at a diner-style restaurant that would serve what Osamu whispers is “the shittiest burgers I’ll ever have the misfortune to digest”. On the way home, sudden heavy rain delays the train network for several minutes. Neither of them had thought to bring an umbrella. Maybe if it were any other day, Suna would be in a foul mood, but he feels nothing of the sort today. For a long time, Suna will remember this day fondly.

And this:

“You know, you look more… yourself,” says his father suddenly over dinner one day. Suna is in the middle of scooping rice into bowls.

“Okay,” he says. “What does that mean?”

“Mm… not sure.”

“Oh my goodness,” Suna’s mother mutters. “He means you’ve been more lively lately. You’ve been smiling more.”

Suna sets the three bowls of rice down on the dinner table and takes his seat. “Is that me being myself? I never realised I was a lively and smiley person.”

“See, dear? He’s been sassier, too,” says his father, and his mother nods in agreement.

“That’s how you know he’s okay.”

“What brought this on, anyway?” Suna asks, sipping his miso soup. His father shrugs.

“I was just thinking that Osamu-kun has been so good to you”—Suna chokes on his soup—“and you always come home looking more relaxed after spending time with him.”

“Stop,” Suna splutters, grabbing some tissues from the box his mother hands to him and coughing violently into them. “Stopstopstop—”

“What? I’m not wrong!”

“ _Stopstopstop_.” Suna grabs some more tissues and hastily wipes up the mess of soup he had spat onto the table. “Stop! When you say it like that, it sounds like he and I are married— _don’t get any ideas!_ ” he adds when he sees his parents exchange thoughtful looks.

“But he’s such a good boy,” his mother says. 

Suna stands to throw the tissues into the bin, and then he grabs himself a cup of water. “We are _not_ in a relationship! Don’t make things weird!”

“Is he still single?”

“I—He— _Yes_ , but—”

“Ooh,” his parents chime in unison.

“ _We are not having this conversation!_ ” Suna sits back down, pointing indignantly at the food in front of them. “Food’s getting cold!”

“He’s so flustered,” his mother stage-whispers to his father, who nods.

“I am not _flustered_ ,” says Suna through a mouthful of leafy greens. “But we’re not going to do this to my friend!”

His father sighs. “All right, all right, no need to kick up a fuss.” Suna doesn’t miss the disappointment in his voice that _just_ isn’t joking enough

“But let us know if you change your mind,” says his mother.

“That is _not_ happening,” says Suna firmly.

And this:

Suna continues working on his piece of night weaving. It’s his slowest and most patient piece.

And finally, this:

The café is closed for the weekend due to some much-needed kitchen renovations, and Suna, with nothing else to do, accompanies Osamu on a trip to Wakayama to deliver an old precious woodblock art print that a customer had ordered. The beautiful print is of a cascading waterfall with water that actually moved and soft clouds that rolled across the print at random, created by a badger spirit half a century ago.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” Osamu as they leave the customer’s house and make their way down the road. “It’s not like this is new to me, but it’s still nice to have company.”

“Oh, don’t get used to it,” Suna jokes. “I was just bored today. Usually, I get paid for my time.”

“Doesn’t that mean I owe you _a lot_ of money?”

“I’ll let it slide because you’ve been bringing customers to the café.”

“And because you like my company.”

With a funny little swoop in his stomach, Suna raises his eyebrows at him. “You really think so, huh?”

“Of course,” says Osamu with a grin. “You definitely prefer me over ‘Tsumu, and if you didn’t, you wouldn’t let me drag you around so much.”

“I do _not_ let you drag me around.”

“We had that awful day in Osaka when it was bucketing rain and we ate those shitty burgers, and I don’t think you complained _at all._ ”

“That was one time.”

“We even went all the way to Himeji that other time and the sale didn’t even go through, but you were fine with that.”

“That was… two times.”

“You’ve never said no when I ask you to come along with me, even when I don’t know how long it’ll take.”

“I _can_ complain if you really want me to.”

Osamu nudges him playfully. “I’m just saying! It’s fun for me, so if it’s fun for you too, then that’s good. That makes me happy.”

They fall into a silence as they walk. Osamu pulls out his phone to check something, and Suna—he remembers conversations past, in particular, the first time he’d been inside the storage room at the Miyas’ store. Getting ‘emotionally invested’ in someone. Being kind. Finding what it means to be happy. Not being so guarded around people and being able to let someone see him at more lows than highs without feeling ashamed of it. Seeking someone’s warmth, and giving warmth back—a balance he had forgotten about for himself. Maybe his parents were right… maybe he’d been livelier, lately. Smiling more. 

Happier.

And maybe a large part of that really was to do with Osamu.

“It’s good if you’re happy,” Suna finally mumbles. There’s an odd tightness in his chest. “You deserve that, so…”

Now, Osamu looks at him with a smile that’s just so _warm_ that Suna turns away almost immediately.

“Hey, Suna-san?” says Osamu serenely

“Yes, Miya-san?”

“You might regret saying that. I’m about to change your mind very quickly.”

“What?”

“Because our train home comes in six minutes,” says Osamu, holding up his phone’s screen, which shows a train’s timetable. “We can make it if we hurry.”

“Wh—It takes at least ten minutes to get to the station from here,” Suna protests.

“Only if we walk, so let’s _run!_ ” 

And with that, he lunges to grab Suna’s wrist to a yelp of confusion and surprise, and turns and—

Off they go, hurtling down the street with Suna desperately trying to keep up with him and spluttering at him to slow down. Osamu is grinning from ear-to-ear, and they don’t stop for even a second as they dash towards the station, the streets a blur around them and Suna’s heart pounding so hard that he can’t hear anything else.

* * *

_oh no_  
_not now_

_please_

_not now_

* * *

Osamu hands Suna a lemon drink from one of the vending machines on the train platform.

“You can say it.” Osamu sits beside him on the bench. “You can say, ‘I told y—’”

“I told you so.”

“Wow, no hesitation at all.”

“You don’t deserve hesitation.”

“I’ll let you have that. I know that was fun for you, though.”

“That was _not_ fun.”

“Yeah, it was! You’re smiling!”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You’re _clearly_ smiling!”

In lieu of retorting, Suna uncaps his drink and takes a long drink. Osamu dissolves into a fit of laughter, and eventually, Suna pulls his bottle from his mouth and joins in.

“We could’ve just taken the next train,” Suna wheezes. “It would’ve just been a nine minute wait.”

“But when a train is so close, doesn’t it make you want to sprint for it?”

“ _No!_ I hated running for trains in high school, it was the worst! And if you make me do it again, I’ll push you onto the train tracks.”

“Wow, _Suna-san_ , that’s harsh!”

“Fine. I’ll never let you have any of our dango ever again.”

Osamu gapes at him. “ _How is that any better?!_ ”

And Suna is overcome by a fresh wave of laughter. He accidentally drops his bottle, which cracks Osamu up again for some reason, and it’s ridiculous, everything about this is ridiculous, they can barely hear the station’s announcements, he’s tired from sprinting the whole way, he’s hungry and Osamu must have been too, people are staring at them, it’s a clear and beautiful day, he’s having fun, he is happy, and he might be a little bit in love. He might be in love.

* * *

Thinking back to the first day they met, maybe it wasn’t all that sudden, but for Suna, it kind of feels like being hit with all the force of a hurricane—and after he’d so adamantly declared to his parents that it wasn’t happening! They would be smug for days! Weeks! They would never stop being smug. He actually starts looking up housing that he could rent. He would need to escape if they ever found out, and he’d gotten a decent amount from the Miyas after selling his items, plus the wages his parents had given him working at the café…

Osamu makes him happy. There is no denying this without lying to himself. He likes being around Osamu. He likes accompanying him on outings, he likes being able to help out when asked, he likes Osamu’s words that can make him stop and re-think whatever’s weighing him down. He liked the feeling of Osamu leaning on him on the train home from Mount Inari, he likes the feeling of Osamu’s hand brushing against his own whenever they’re passing something to each other, the smiles they share as they joke around, his name appearing on Suna’s phone screen whenever he calls, Osamu’s expressions of delight upon eating delicious food that always comes to mind whenever Suna is preparing the café’s snacks.

He likes all that. The thoughts make him warm, but there’s also a growing unpleasant twisting in the pit of his stomach. Were these thoughts of Suna falling in love, or were they from simply enjoying the company of a friend? What if he got it wrong?

For what felt like a long time, Suna had harboured a lot of building resentment that he never knew what to do with, stuck between fighting for someone who made him happy and fighting against others who made him miserable. He wanted to believe that he’d overcome that since leaving Kyoto and coming home, but had he? He didn’t want for Osamu to keep having to deal with Suna’s old emotional baggage. So was this enough? Would he fall back into bad habits? Would he experience that sort of heartbreak again? 

With Osamu?

Well… not that he even knew if Osamu felt the same way. Not that he even knew what ‘that same way’ was, at least just yet.

And somehow, this calms him down, quells that twisting in his stomach, and he takes a deep breath.

He didn’t need to overload his mind with all this in one go. He didn’t have to rush into things right away. He could slow down and sort out his feelings and what he wanted in the future. He could take what made him happy and hold onto that, draw what courage he needed.

He could breathe. And he would be patient. Because Osamu was worth that. No matter what, he deserved that.

* * *

_oh, if you knew just what a fool you have made me_

* * *

The next time he sees Osamu, it is at the café again. Usually, Osamu tries to pick the quieter times to visit so he can chat with Suna and his parents, but when he walks in today, all the tables are full.

“Hi,” says Suna when he sees Osamu walk in. “It’ll be a few minutes wait, but—are you okay?” 

Osamu is looking more uncomfortable than Suna can ever remember seeing him, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Sorry, I’m not here for food today,” he murmurs. “I was actually wondering, do you have a pair of disposable gloves I could use?”

“Oh, sure, give me a second.” Suna gestures for Osamu to follow him towards the kitchen, where he grabs a pair of new off-white rubber gloves from a box and passes them to him. Osamu, his hands bare, quickly pulls them on and sighs in relief.

“Thank you,” he says.

“What happened?”

But Osamu shakes his head. “I just lost my gloves. It’s fine. I gotta get going—and you’ve got a full house right now, so I’ll talk to you later. Thanks again!”

“Osamu—”

But he has already turned and hurried out, gloved hands tucked back into his pockets. Suna stares after him blankly.

Not long before the café closes for the day, Suna sends Osamu a text message: _Stop by for some tea at closing time? Helps after a shitty day_

 _Was it that obvious?_ Osamu texts back.

 _It was as subtle as the time I got spiked in the face by a volleyball during PE_ , Suna replies. _See you soon_

  
As he’s taking in the café’s sandwich board at the end of the day, he looks up and sees Osamu approaching again, this time with a little grin on his face.

“So, you got hit in the face during PE?” he asks.

“Is it PE if you _don’t_ get hit in the face?”

“What kind of PE lessons did you guys have…?”

Inside, after somehow managing to convince his parents to stay away from the eating area and give the two of them some time to talk, Suna ushers Osamu into a table furthest from the kitchen and sets down a plate with a slice of castella, two cups of tea, and a kettle. He sits opposite him and notes that Osamu is still wearing the disposable gloves he’d given him, but keeps quiet as they drink and eat.

A third of the way through the castella, Osamu turns his fork restlessly between his fingers and says, “I lost my gloves. I took them off when I went to the washroom at the mall and left them next to one of the sinks, but when I came out, they were gone. Dumb mistake, but I didn’t think anyone would be interested in a pair of _gloves_. Usually, I have disposable gloves in my bag, but not today, and I was barely on time to meet a customer, so I couldn’t buy another pair.”

He watches as Suna refills his tea, and then pulls off the disposable gloves he’s wearing and wraps his hands around the cup. 

“Bad customer, then?” Suna asks. Osamu gives a tired sigh.

“Old family in Nara. They had an old koto they wanted to sell. It was the most beautiful koto I’ve ever seen. It was _incredible_ , and it had silk strings infused with moonlight, even nicer than the ones you infused for us that other time—no offence.” Suna snorts. “But when I touched it… everything about it felt so wrong. It was like everyone who handled it previously never knew a happy feeling in their life. I’ve never felt so many negative emotions all at once, and so _strongly_ before, it was like physical pain. There’s no way a koto _that_ beautiful should have felt the way it did. And I guess it shook me up more than I expected, because I couldn’t really focus on it, and the family noticed. They got really frosty with me and we lost the sale in the end, but honestly, I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out. And then, I was so distracted that I forgot to buy gloves after I left.”

He still looks distracted. Suna picks up Osamu’s fork and uses it to break off a small corner of the castella, scooping it onto his palm and eating it. As Osamu watches him, he exhales slowly and then picks up his teacup to take a sip.

“I didn’t really have a reason to come to your café specifically to get gloves. I think I just wanted to see a familiar face. But I felt better after I got them from you,” he says quietly. “I felt… protected. Is that weird?”

“Not weird to me,” says Suna calmly, even though his insides are practically doing a tango. “Isn’t that how you always feel when you’re wearing gloves, though?”

“No, it felt different this time. Do you remember? I told you, the day after we went to Mount Inari, that you weren’t my protector.”

“I remember,” says Suna.

Osamu smiles into his teacup. “I take that back. Sorry.”

Forget a tango, Suna’s insides are doing the jitterbug. He takes a long sip of his tea before saying in a choked voice, “Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe it’s okay if we aren’t ‘protectors’. Maybe we’re just two friends helping each other out.”

Osamu’s smile falters, so briefly that Suna thinks maybe he had just imagined it. “Yeah. That’s what friends do,” he says. 

“Right.”

“Right. Um… anyway, I feel a lot better now. I saw another customer after I got gloves from you, and they’ve always been really good to me and ‘Tsumu, so that helped. And then I got your text to have some tea, and that cheered me up too. The castella is really nice, by the way. It tastes a bit different—new recipe?”

“New type of honey we’re trying.”

“Ah.” Osamu nods and sips his tea again. “Thanks for letting me hang around, even though you’re closed… oh, did you want a hand cleaning up? Or, I can head off if I’m in the way? I can—”

“Miya-san.”

“Yes, Suna-san?”

Suna points to his food. “Take your time.”

“Oh… right.”

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, I will be. This is… one of those times I try to keep my distance. I don’t think that family will contact us again.” He gives a wistful sigh and absently runs his fingers along the side of the castella’s plate. “That koto really was _sooo beautiful_ , though.”

Suna leans in and lowers his voice mock-conspiratorially. “If you want to organise a heist, just say so.”

Osamu snorts with laughter and jokes, “I’ll let you know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” Osamu reaches for the kettle to refill their tea, pulling it out of Suna’s reach when he tries to do it himself. He pours the hot water into their cups carefully. His hands are still bare. Suna wants to touch them, press his own hands against them, ask Osamu if he can tell what Suna is feeling, because Suna himself isn’t so sure. He folds his arms on the table top instead.

“What do you do when that kind of thing gets too much?” Suna asks quietly. “If you’ve touched too many things with negative emotions?”

“It’s usually not that bad, or else it’s rare. I’m careful with my gloves, but I guess even I have the occasional off-day. If it gets too much, I’ll take a break for a day or two and unwind—you know, eat at my favourite restaurants, go for a hike somewhere, or binge-watch something and do nothing for a day… visit friends.”

“You’re always welcome here,” says Suna. “You’ve helped me out a lot… and god knows, I can sense my parents wanting to run out to fuss over you.”

They both turn to see Suna’s father walking by the kitchen with a bag of mochi flour in his hands. When he notices them watching, he breaks into a good-natured grin. “How’s the castella, Osamu-kun?”

“Really good!” Osamu calls out. “I think this is even better than the old recipe.”

“ _See, Rintarou!_ I told you!”

“Oh god.”

“Come on, boy—chairs aren’t gonna stack themselves.”

“Okay, okay.” Suna stands. “Osamu, take your time, okay? Want to grab dinner later?”

“Sorry, I already promised ‘Tsumu I’d give him a run-down of what happened with the koto. But… tomorrow, Gin’s in town again—remember? You met him when we had dinner at that Italian place you recommended? ‘Tsumu and I are planning on dragging him out for dinner and drinks. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Sure, just send me the details.”

“Will do. See you tomorrow then. And… thanks again for today.”

“C’mon, stop. We’re friends, right?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

And with that, they exchange a smile. Osamu looks a world more relaxed than he did earlier today, and he really does have a nice smile, and Suna’s heart really did just stutter out of rhythm. He turns away, moving to stack the chairs on the other tables. Osamu goes back to finishing his castella and tea.

* * *

A few days later, the bell on the Miyas’ store’s front door rings and Suna makes his way into the reception area as usual. There’s a slow, almost _annoyed_ shuffle coming from the backrooms, and Atsumu pokes his head in.

“Welcome, how can—oh!” He perks up. “Jeez, you should’ve called out. I would’ve walked even slower.”

Suna snorts. “That’s why I didn’t call out.”

“Smartass. But I’ll give you that.” Atsumu folds his arms across his chest and leans against the partition behind the counter. “‘Samu’s not in today, he’s—”

“In Okayama. I know.” He had mentioned it over a phone conversation last night. “I’m actually here to see you.”

Atsumu straightens his posture curiously. “Oho?”

Suna takes a deep breath. “I was wondering… can you read my hands?”

The look on Atsumu’s face turns from curious to calculating, clever. Suna is reminded of the first day they had met. He had expected this and they have become friends since then, but nevertheless, it puts him on guard and he, too, straightens his posture.

“And what do you want to know?” Atsumu asks.

“My present.”

Atsumu raises his eyebrows. “Not your future? That’s what everyone comes to me for.”

Suna drops his gaze. “My… future, too. But for only one thing.”

“What do you want to know from your future?”

“Um… there’s a certain… someone… who played an important part in my—”

“Dude, don’t do that. Just tell me who this person is.”

“My ex-fiancé,” says Suna, because he’s about to lose his nerve. “I used to be engaged to someone, and our break-up was messy. I want to know if we patch things up in the future.”

“Hm… okay. And your present?”

“I want… clarity. I’ve got a lot I’ve been thinking about, and everything gets jumbled in my head. I overthink and I confuse myself, so… I was hoping you could help me sort something out.”

The faintest of smiles crosses Atsumu’s face, and he gestures to the couches in the room, and says, “Let’s take a seat.”

They sit and Suna prepares to show him his hands, but Atsumu leans back on his couch and crosses one leg over the other, folding his hands in his lap and fixing Suna with a gaze that’s now surprisingly hard to read.

“Let’s start with what I do when someone wants me to read their hands,” he says. “Tell me: are you sure? Because once I look at them, I’ll know almost _everything_.”

“That’s… what I came here for,” says Suna uncertainly.

“I’m being careful. When Osamu touches things and senses emotions on them, it can feel invasive to him. It’s similar when I’m reading hands.”

“But… it’s what you do with the information that sets you apart,” Suna murmurs, remembering. Atsumu’s faint smile widens ever so slightly.

“There’s a certain level of trust in me that you need when I read them. I can distance myself from people when I need to, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’ll know everything about you. And because I’ll know a little about your future too, I’ll know _more_ about you than even you do. So, I’ll ask again: are you sure?”

“Are you asking me if I trust you?” Suna asks.

The smile fades from Atsumu’s face, and he exhales slowly before saying, “Yeah, that’s right.”

Whatever Suna had been expecting from today’s visit, this wasn’t it. Just like with Osamu, he wonders what Atsumu had seen up until now—life and death, fond memories and painful memories, pasts and presents and futures that weren’t his own. Perhaps these had taught Osamu empathy, kindness, and patience, but perhaps it was the opposite for Atsumu—that life and death and loss and gain had taught him to protect his heart and keep people at arm’s length.

“Two things first: do you consider your ability to be a curse or a gift?” Suna asks, and Atsumu is taken aback like that, too, was not what he’d been expecting.

“What do you mean?”

“Osamu… can’t control feeling other people’s emotions when he touches things. He doesn’t like it, and he always wears gloves when he can. A friend of mine we met said his ability was a curse. What do you think about yours?”

Atsumu blinks and stares ahead, thinking for a while. It’s probably the quietest Suna has ever seen him, and if it were any other circumstance, maybe that would be funny, but today, he only wants to know Atsumu’s answer.

“I think,” says Atsumu slowly, “some things don’t fit into either category—things like my ability. But for me, I can say yes or no to people when it comes to _wanting_ to look at their hands. I can’t exactly turn it off, but I still have a choice. ‘Samu doesn’t. So maybe his is a curse to him. Mine, when I do read hands, I see good things and bad things and things in between. So… if you were hoping for a definite answer, then you’ll be disappointed, but it’s just not that simple.”

“No… it makes perfect sense.”

“And what’s the second thing you wanted to know?” 

“Second…” Suna points to Atsumu’s hands. “Can you read Osamu’s?”

Atsumu looks surprised again. Suna wonders if people simply never asked the twins these things—if perhaps they were just blinded by the mystique of the abilities and not the holders themselves.

“No, I’ve never been able to,” Atsumu answers. “His hands don’t tell me anything, and to be perfectly honest, the thought of ever being able to read them scares the hell out of me. And that’s not all—Osamu can’t feel emotions on me, and if I touch something, I don’t make a difference to the emotions left on them previously. It made our fistfights when we were younger a bit more even.” He twists his fingers together absently for a moment, staring unseeingly at the table in front of him before adding, “Even though we have special abilities, we can’t do anything for each other with them. So I guess we just end up looking out for each other in more… conventional ways.”

“Fistfights,” says Suna.

“Fistfights,” says Atsumu. “Do these answer your questions?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Then, I’ll ask you again: are you sure you want me to read your hands?”

And Suna nods. “I trust you.”

Atsumu uncrosses his leg, leaning forward. “You were real vague before, but what did you want to know about your present, specifically?”

Suna thinks of wanting to press his hands to Osamu’s, asking Osamu if he can tell what Suna is feeling, because Suna himself isn’t sure. He remembers that a while ago, Atsumu had said that both he and Osamu are pretty observant. He wonders if Atsumu knows right now.

“I want to know… how I feel about your brother.”

And by the lack of surprise on Atsumu’s face, Suna might have been right.

Atsumu taps the table top. “Both hands out, palms up. Which one is your dominant hand?”

“My right hand,” Suna answers.

“And which finger do you use to point? Your index finger?”

“Yeah.” 

“Both hands?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

And Atsumu leans over them, not touching Suna’s hands, but his eyes narrow as he observes them very keenly. Minutes pass and he doesn’t speak and barely moves. Suna’s fingertips are getting cold. The air is tense, and any quips he wants to make don’t form. He lets Atsumu work in complete silence.

Finally, Atsumu straightens up and leans back against his couch. Suna withdraws his hands, rubbing them together.

“Okay, so, first thing,” says Atsumu. “Your ex-fiancé. You do patch things up with him. You never go back to how you used to be, but you’ll no longer be hostile towards him.”

Suna sighs in something like relief before he even realises it. “Okay. Thank you.”

“As for your present… I’m not sure why you came to me when you already know the answer.” 

“What do you mean?”

Atsumu points to Suna’s hands. “You want to know whether or not you’re in love with my brother. Your hands make it clear as day that you _are_.”

“Oh,” says Suna in a strangled sort of voice.

“Hopeless,” Atsumu whispers to the ceiling, tilting his head against the back of the couch. “Hopeleeess.”

“It’s not _that_ stupid of a question,” Suna hisses. “I wanted to be sure and get another opinion! I like his company a lot, but I was overthinking it, so it was hard to tell whether that was as friends or… otherwise.”

“Why can’t friendship and romance overlap a bit?” Atsumu is still staring at the ceiling and looking like he’s beginning to regret the last half hour. “People constantly treat them as separate things, but doesn’t it make perfect sense to love _and_ like someone? Like when a married couple consider each other to be best friends? Like that!”

Suna buries his face in his hands. “You’ve played relationship counsellor before?”

“ _No_ , people don’t come to me for relationship troubles! I always try to remain a neutral party. But in this case, I’m just pointing out the blatantly obvious.”

“This was a mistake.”

“I did warn you.”

“You did,” Suna admits.

“What will you do now?”

“Whatever happened to remaining a ‘neutral party’?”

“This is my brother we’re talking about.”

They are quiet for a minute, before Suna pulls his hands from his face to stare at Atsumu. “Am I losing my mind, or are you… not disapproving of this?”

Atsumu has not stopped staring at the ceiling. Suna actually leans back against his couch and follows his gaze. “The only things I’ll tell you are the facts,” says Atsumu. “Which are: you can love _and_ like someone, you are in love with my brother, I don’t know how Osamu feels, and that I know he has fun when he’s with you. He likes your company too.”

“I kind of know that already,” Suna mutters.

“Then why are you being so wishy-washy about it?”

“Because I don’t know if he likes me, or if he _likes_ -likes me.”

“You sound like something out of a teen magazine!”

“You’re not helping.”

“ _Uuuggghhh_ …” Atsumu points to Suna’s hands and says, “You had a fiancé. You took a risk, dating him and getting engaged to him. Your break-up was messy. You took another risk by leaving him. Being in love is taking risks. You never know what’s going to happen next.”

“You think this is taking a risk.”

“Yup,” says Atsumu matter-of-factly. “But if you think he’s worth it, then I don’t know why that should stop you. Or, don’t call it a ‘risk’. Call it whatever you want. But at the end of the day, I _can_ tell you that, yes, you are in love with my brother. That’s what you came here to confirm, right?”

To learn to breathe. To learn to be patient. And after all that is said and done, to allow himself the courage to fall. To take a risk, and to fall.

Suna exhales. “Right.”

“If you want me to tell you more about your future, I still can.”

To fall, and not be afraid of hurting, because Osamu was worth that. If Suna could reach out, and if Osamu would take hold, then Suna would want to take this risk with him.

“I don’t want you to tell me,” says Suna. 

“Okay,” says Atsumu. And then he claps his hands down on his knees and inhales, shattering the lingering tension into pieces when he says almost cheerfully, “Well, then! Was there anything else you wanted to know? Because I have _a lot_ of work to do.”

The way he stares at Suna is very pointed and Suna grins, slowly standing from the couch. “No, that’s all. Um… thank you.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get sappy.”

“Saying ‘thank you’ is sappy?”

Atsumu begins to shepherd him towards the door. “We were just talking about your feelings for my brother. _Anything_ you say is sappy and gross right now. ”

“Are you cheering me on?”

“I am a neutral party. I just gave facts.” Atsumu opens the door. Suna lingers between the doorframe.

“I don’t suppose ‘wingman’ is part of your job description, huh?”

“Suna?”

“Yes, Atsumu?”

“Get outta my store.”

Suna grins and steps outside and says, “Thanks for today.”

“All right, all right. See you soon.”

“See you.”

* * *

_what do i do_  
_with a love that won’t sit still?_

* * *

Before he calls Osamu later that night, Suna stares at the photo he had set as Osamu’s profile picture in his contacts list. This was the photo he had taken on their walk through Mount Inari: the shot of his back, the vivid orange of the torii gates, the sliver of afternoon sun, the comfortable expression on Osamu’s face. It had been a spontaneous thing then, but Suna can’t help it—every time he looks at it, it makes him feel warm. He hadn’t really realised why until now. He hadn’t _realised_ until now. Everything that had happened since then, everything that had changed about the two of them, things they’ve shared that couldn’t ever be replicated in any way. Things meant just for them. All of these lead to Suna being where he is today.

He is weaving night again—the same piece he had been working on for a while now. Slowly, patiently. He presses his earphones into his ears, taps the call button on his phone, and waits as it rings.

“Hey,” comes Osamu’s voice, and Suna smiles somewhat automatically. He couldn’t fight that back even if he tried.

“Hey. My parents liked the selfie you sent them of you drinking bubble tea,” says Suna. “They asked me if we should start selling that at the café, too.”

Osamu laughs. It’s a nice sound. It’s always a nice sound. “I thought I’d treat myself on my way back from Okayama. And it wasn’t bad, either; the pearls were really good. If you ever need a test-taster, I’m always here.”

“You always are,” Suna says. Patiently, patiently. “Did you have a good day today?” 

“Yeah! I always like Okayama. I met a potential seller who had some really nice jewellery pieces, and they seemed pretty happy with me. They’ll be bringing some pieces over for verification later this week.” He pauses. “I had a _really_ great ramen lunch, too.”

“There we go,” says Suna, grinning.

“The soup, oh my god… and the _bamboo_ … I have to take you there someday. Remind me. Hey, how about you, how was your day?”

Suna sets his weaving on his lap and absently rubs his hands together. “Good… I learnt a lot.” 

“Ooh, share with the class.”

“Hah… not yet.”

“ _Booo!_ ”

“That’s not a very nice way of asking. You sound like Atsumu.”

“ _Oh!_ ” says Osamu dramatically as Suna dissolves into a bout of snickering. “ _Oh_ , that is a _low-blow_ , Suna-san! I thought you cared about me! How could you say that?”

“I’m teaching you manners,” says Suna. “You try telling me ‘ _booo_ ’ one more time, I dare you.”

“ _Dammit_ … and you don’t care enough about ramen for me to use that against you, either! C’mon, give me something to work with!”

“I am not giving you ammunition.”

“ _Sunaaaaa_ …” Osamu says in an exaggerated whine, and this just serves to make Suna laugh more. 

And for the next hour, they banter back and forth, chat about anything and everything that comes to mind, sometimes fall into an amicable silence punctured by the sounds of Osamu crunching on almonds or Suna adjusting his sitting position as he continues to weave. He puts a lot of this into his weaving, he thinks—Osamu’s voice, Osamu’s laughter, Suna falling a little more in love every day, Suna wondering how he could’ve ever been unsure. This fall, this want to take a risk, this lack of fear of hurting. This easy, comfortable company. This finding a friend, this finding a love, this finding of both. 

Patiently, patiently.

* * *

Suna doesn’t forget what Atsumu had said about patching things up with Seiji. Though he has no idea how it’ll happen, the thought of this is a refreshing, reassuring relief, and Suna’s not completely sure how much of that has to do with Atsumu’s reading and how much has to do with Suna being happier these days, not so weighed down by everything that had happened.

He unblocks Seiji’s number on his phone and reactivates his social media accounts, though he doesn’t use them just yet. He sees names of friends and others he’d cut off suddenly and gets glimpses of what they’ve been up to lately. Maybe he’ll catch up with them sometime, sooner rather than later.

The café’s door slides open not long after he’d taken in the sandwich board at the end of the day.

“Sorry, we’re closed for today,” Suna says, looking up from the chair he’d been stacking. And then, he freezes.

Seiji walks in, a tiny, almost shy smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Suna answers. “Table for one?”

“I just… wanted to talk.”

“Table for one, then.” Suna gestures to a table in the middle that hadn’t been packed up yet. Seiji shrugs and sits.

“Sorry I’m here at the end of the day again.”

“When else would you come in to talk? During peak hour?”

“Point taken.”

“Give me a minute,” says Suna, heading back to the kitchen where his parents are once again peering out and watching Seiji wearily. He tells them in a low voice, “Can you… take a walk around? Go grocery shopping or something. Visit the Muratas, maybe? They’re always stopping by; you could buy some noodles from them as thanks. I haven’t had soba in a while.”

“Rin-chan—”

“It’s okay,” says Suna. “And I’m not just saying that. It’s really okay.”

They exchange a look and then turn back to him, and it seems like they still want to argue, but eventually his father nudges his mother and nods to the front door. Suna’s mother sighs and removes her apron, and they both start to head out. Seiji stands from his table and greets them, bowing low. They stop walking, Suna’s mother eyes him up and down, and Suna holds his breath.

“Have you been well?” says his mother, voice not cold, but not quite friendly either.

“Yes, I have,” says Seiji politely.

“Are your parents well?” Suna’s father asks. 

Seiji nods. “They are.”

“How is business?”

“Steady. We don’t have any complaints.”

“That’s good.”

“Thank you very much.”

Suna exhales softly when his mother pats Seiji’s arm once as she continues walking past and his father nods at him. Seiji bows once more after them, straightening up only when they slide the door closed. He sits back down. In the kitchen, Suna prepares a cup of roasted tea and a plate of two dango skewers with a generous coating of sweet sauce, the way he knew Seiji enjoyed them most. Mingled with the sounds of Suna working are buzzes from Seiji’s phone—messages relating to work, no doubt. He answers them as he patiently waits until Suna steps back out and sets the teacup and dango on the table in front of him. Seiji’s mouth quirks into a fond half-smile and he switches off his phone.

“Damn… I haven’t had these in ages. Thanks.”

Without a response, Suna takes the seat in front of him, sitting sideways so he can stare out the window. Despite whatever he’d been thinking about patching things up with Seiji, there’s still a tension here that he supposes should be expected. Just because someone told him things would be okay, didn’t mean that he’d feel completely at ease when the moment called for it. This was something he still had to work towards.

Seiji finishes one of the dango skewers with a content hum. He takes a sip of his tea, and after drumming his fingers against the side of the cup, he says quietly, “I wanted to tell you that I’m moving to Fukuoka next month.” 

Suna raises his eyebrows but doesn’t look at him. “Fukuoka’s nice,” he says mildly. “Good ramen. What for?”

“We’re opening up a new hotel. It’s about the size of our Osaka one, so… not very big. But I’m in charge of managing the entire thing. Construction’s about a third of the way done.”

“Fukuoka’s not exactly next door. Your parents have always wanted you close by—I’m surprised they let you go.”

“Ah… about that… I didn’t give them a choice, actually.”

Now, Suna stares at him. “What do you mean?”

“I had thought about moving away from Kyoto for a while. Getting away and making a change, you know? Fukuoka was the perfect opportunity, and I told my parents I wanted to be in charge of it. They weren’t happy with that at first”—Suna makes a little noise in his throat like a barely-suppressed scoff—“because they wanted me to take over the Kyoto hotel, but I dug my heels in and kept talking to them, and eventually… they agreed. I mean, they still weren’t happy, but they agreed.” Seiji smiles dryly now. “You told me, last time I saw you, that you had needed me to grow a spine and stop running off every time they needed me. And… it was hard, but I realised you were right. I spent all my time trying to be there for them that I didn’t realise how suffocated I was. I needed breathing space. I needed to think about what I wanted. My own happiness by my own means. And it took losing my fiancé for me to finally understand it.”

Suna drops his gaze down at his hands. What was it Atsumu had said? They would never go back to how they used to be.

And that was a good thing.

“You always had a lot of pressure on you,” he murmurs. “Eldest son… heir to something as big as your family’s corporation… But no matter what I did, I never understood that myself.”

“I think it’s hard unless you’ve walked in my shoes… I don’t think that’s anyone’s fault, though. And anyway, even if you understood, it wouldn’t be fair if you were tied down by that, either.” Seiji adds, softer: “We tried, remember? You said it yourself, it was never going to work, but we really did try. And I’m glad we tried.”

Suna finally turns in his chair so that they are facing each other, and he meets his eyes now when he says, “Me too. And I’m glad you told your parents what you wanted. Knowing them, that couldn’t have been easy, so… I’m proud of you. Is that weird? Fuck it. I’m proud. And I know you’ll be okay from here onwards.”

“Yeah? That makes me feel a bit more at ease, actually.”

“Just be patient with yourself, okay? That’s what I’m trying to learn, too.”

“That’s a good thing to learn.” 

For what feels like the first time in years, they exchange a smile. Seiji starts eating his second stick of dango.

“Fukuoka…” says Suna slowly. “You always did like the warmer weather better. And it’s closer to Okinawa. You really liked Okinawa.”

“Mm, I’m looking forward to sneaking off on holidays.” Seiji chews his snack thoughtfully. “Was Okinawa where you got the mermaid’s blood, or was that the spider spirit’s web?”

“Mermaid’s blood. The web was from that hike we went on in Hakone.”

“Do you still have those? The blood and the web?”

“No, I sold them.”

“Oh… yeah, okay. I guess I… never really made the effort to understand the items you collected, either.”

“It’s okay,” says Suna. “Can you imagine trying to explain to your parents that a spider spirit insisted you take some medicinal web as thanks for doing something about the water leaking into her burrow?”

Seiji chokes on a mouthful of tea. “Is _that_ what happened?”

“I did it by complete accident, but I couldn’t tell her that. Don’t ask any further.”

“I… won’t.”

“Anyway, you didn’t come all this way from Kyoto just to tell me you’re moving to Fukuoka, did you?”

“No, I’m meeting some suppliers around here today, but I thought this would be a good time to talk, too. I go back to Kyoto this evening.” Seiji looks down at his finished plate of dango. “I should probably head off, actually. Still got things to do. How much for…?”

Suna snorts, eyeing the wallet Seiji pulls out of his pocket. “Put that away or so help me god, I will run out and throw the entire thing into the nearest river.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep, that’s me: practical joker.”

“You’re not exactly an angel, you know!”

“Seiji?”

“Hm?”

“Get outta my café.”

Seiji grins, collects his belongings, and stands. “Thanks. Tell your parents the dango were delicious.”

“I will.” Suna is smiling a little too, and Seiji claps his shoulder as he walks past to leave. 

“Take care, Rintarou.”

“You too, Seiji.”

Suna hears the door slide open and close, and then the sound of Seiji’s footsteps fading away. For a while, he remains seated at the table, thinking, thinking.

* * *

“Hey, what’s up?” Osamu answers his phone just another minute later.

“Are you at the store?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The watches I sold to you,” says Suna, taking the stairs two at a time to get to his room. “Do you still have the Tag Heuer?”

There is a long silence. Suna stops right outside his door and waits, feeling his heart sinking. “It’s fine if you’ve sold it,” he says. “I just… thought I’d ask.”

“We haven’t sold it. It’s still here,” says Osamu at last. Suna exhales in relief and dives into his room, fumbling to take off his hakama.

“Can you hold onto it for me? I’ll come over.”

“I—Yeah, sure. I’ll be here.”

“See you soon!”

Without waiting for a response, Suna hangs up and throws his phone into his messenger bag, strips off the rest of his clothes, and changes into casual wear. He collects his bag and dashes back out, locking the café behind him.

He sprints all the way to the station, taking his usual route to get to the Miyas’ store. He doesn’t remember much about his way there, just that he moves as fast as he can, and it feels like flying, like rushing out of that same store after the first time he’d visited, like clinging onto the back of a fox spirit cantering down a mountain, like dashing for a train with Osamu holding onto him like he would never let go.

The familiar shopfront, the familiar bell, its familiar chime. When Suna hurries into the reception area, Osamu is at the counter. He holds up a paper bag and Suna practically snatches it from him. Inside is the black watch case. He takes a moment to catch his breath as he pries it open. The Tag Heuer is just as it has always been—pristine, never touched, never appreciated, and Suna had never really let it go. 

Until today.

Suna snaps it closed and presses it to his forehead for a moment, a final goodbye. When he looks up, he sees that Osamu is watching him with a completely unreadable expression, and Suna wants to talk to him, to ask if he ever believed in happy endings, if he ever thought the world was tired, if he ever thought one person could ever change that notion.

He will have time. He promises himself this.

“Thanks,” Suna says as he lowers it carefully into the paper bag again. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later!”

“See you,” says Osamu, and Suna turns and hurtles out of the store again. 

Back down the street, back to the station, back on the train, and then out again. He pulls his phone from his bag and taps on Seiji’s name to call him.

“Did I hit my head, or did you unblock my number?” says Seiji when he answers.

“Where are you right now?”

“Uh, I’m just inside EDION, near the station. I’m meeting a supplier in half an—”

“Can you meet me outside the station’s south exit?”

“Sure… are you okay? You sound really—”

Suna just hangs up and makes his way to the exit, slumping to sit on the railing by the side of the road and catching his breath. He remembers his joking threats against Osamu if he ever made Suna sprint for a train again, and he stifles a laugh.

“Rintarou?” Seiji calls out another minute later, and Suna stands again. His legs are going to hate him tomorrow. As Seiji nears, Suna holds out the paper bag, slightly crumpled during his haphazard dash, and drops it into his hands. “What’s this about?” 

“The Tag Heuer,” says Suna. “The one you gave me for my birthday, remember? I’m giving it back. I never even touched it, but it’s a really beautiful watch, so it should go to someone who’ll appreciate it.”

Seiji opens the box and stares at the watch inside for a while. Suna is kind of tempted to leave it as that and walk off.

But he wants closure, and walking off like that was not closure.

“I think I can bring the other watches too, if you want,” he mumbles. “The ones you gave me…”

“No, you can do what you want with those,” says Seiji. He closes the box again and looks up at Suna with a faint smile. “You… found someone new.”

Suna raises his eyebrows. His heart had stuttered out of rhythm for a beat and he had thought of Osamu immediately, of course, but Seiji didn’t need to know any of that. “I’m not dating anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not what I’m asking.” But Seiji seems content with Suna’s answer. He holds up the watch case. “Thanks for this.”

“I… sure.”

“And you know, you should get in contact with our friends again. They’ve all been worried about you.”

“I will.” Suna shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a deep breath. “Safe trip back. Good luck with Fukuoka.”

“Thanks.”

“Take care, Seiji.”

“You too, Rintarou.”

And with one last exchange of smiles, Suna turns, leaves the last few years behind, and starts heading home.

* * *

_so what do i do with this?_  
_this sudden burst of sunlight_  
_and me with my umbrella_  
_cross-indexing every weatherman’s report_

* * *

He is weaving night again. He is almost finished with this piece. As he works, he calls Osamu.

“Hey, how’d it go?” 

“Good,” Suna answers. He’s not sure how to explain the feeling of walking away and finally, finally being okay with it. Maybe it’s too much for a phone conversation, and maybe not a conversation for Osamu to sit through. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it didn’t need explaining. Maybe ‘good’ was enough. “I, uh… realised that when I ran out with the watch today, I forgot to pay for it. Sooo… if you send me the bank details for the store, I can have the amount transferred to you.”

“Ah, yeah, about that…” Osamu trails off with a thoughtful hum.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” says Suna. “What do you want instead? My kidney? My liver?”

Osamu snickers, and Suna expects him to joke back, but instead, he says, “Atsumu and I were actually wondering if you’d like to work with us.”

“Work? Don’t I already—?”

“No, not quite. You help us do smaller jobs sometimes and go on short trips to get items—I think the furthest you travelled for us was that time you went to Ashiya for the scissors that didn’t blunt. But we were thinking… if you’d like to be an official associate of ours, you’d work with us more often and we’d be able to send you on longer trips and pay for transport and accomodation and such if you need.”

“Sort of like what you do?”

“Yeah, you’d be taking on part of our work. We’d still leave the customers to me and the more technical stuff to Atsumu, but when it comes to handling and collecting items, we’d like to be able to call on you a bit more. Maybe we can take on requests—the reasonable ones—more actively rather than letting our current list collect dust. We were thinking of a trial, first—you can pay off the Tag Heuer by doing some jobs for us, and once that’s been cleared… we’ll see if we’re all happy enough to continue the arrangement.”

All this time, Suna has not moved a millimetre on his weaving. The Miya brothers wanted him to work with them officially. He could split his time between the café and the store. If the café really got too busy, they could hire a part-timer. If it didn’t work out with the Miyas, they could go back to how they currently are. They could—

“Suna?” says Osamu. “Are you there?”

“I’m still here,” says Suna. “I like it. Let’s give it a try. What do you need from me?”

The sound of Osamu’s smile in his voice is familiar, warm, when he says, “Can you come by the store sometime this week? We have some paperwork for you to fill out. Tax stuff, you know how it is.”

“Sure.”

“And… we’re still holding onto the other watches you brought in.”

“Oh, I don’t need those. You can sell them. I mean, I tried keeping them in good condition, but I did still wear them a lot, so I don’t know how you’ll do.”

Osamu snorts. “ _Suna-san_ ,” he says, mock-offended. “Am I an _amateur?_ ”

“My bad, _Miya-san_.”

“We know watchmakers and jewellers, so don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Suna returns to his work. But then, something about what Osamu says stops him. “Wait… you said you knew watchmakers and jewellers… then, why have you held onto the watches all this time? It’s been months. I mean, a new Tag Heuer, maybe, but what would you do with a four year old Casio?”

From Osamu’s side, Suna can hear him pull a sliding door open, soft wind, faintly chattering birds in the distance. Osamu half-sighs, half-grunts like he’s sitting down, and Suna guesses he’s outside on a balcony.

“It’s true, I was actually about to take your watches to a jeweller we sometimes go to. All four of them. I already made an appointment and everything,” says Osamu. “But then Atsumu told me to hold onto them a little longer, and I had a feeling something was going to happen with you.”

Suna feels his stomach drop. “What? You—”

“I don’t know anything,” Osamu says quickly, and Suna exhales in relief. “Atsumu never tells me anything about the hands he reads, and I never ask. It’s an unspoken agreement we have—probably the only thing we’ve ever agreed on, actually. I didn’t even know he’d read yours, and he didn’t say… but when it comes to those watches, there’s only ever one connection to make, isn’t there? You and your ex-fiancé. So I put two and two together. And then, it felt like I just blinked and you came running in. So maybe it was luck and good timing.”

“Seems like it,” says Suna. “Atsumu… he told me that I would eventually mend things with Seiji, sort of. When I sold that Tag Heuer to you guys ages ago, it never really felt right to me, and I realised I had to take it back.”

“When you called me to ask for it, I did kind of have a feeling you’d try patching things up with him… watching you say goodbye to it like you did, I knew I was right.”

Suna, pressing the small box to his forehead like he was saying a prayer. Osamu, watching him with an unreadable expression. Suna, wanting to ask him—

“Do you believe in happy endings?”

“I… don’t believe in _endings_ ,” says Osamu slowly. “In my work, I’m always seeing items come and go, moving from one person’s story to someone else’s. And I’ve learnt that that applies to a lot of other things, too. Like you, your story. What I believe is that we’re always trying to move onto the next thing. What do you think?”

“I like that,” says Suna, “I think it can be tiring, but… it’s not so bad sometimes. A focus on new beginnings, rather than endings. I think that’s a risk I don’t mind taking.”

“You think it’s taking a risk?”

“Yeah.” Suna smiles. “New beginnings can be scary. But if it’s worth it, then I don’t know why that should stop me.”

“I didn’t really expect this optimistic side from you. I like it.”

“I didn’t expect it, either.”

To breathe, to be patient, to take a risk, to fall. To believe that the tired world could change.

“You know… I’ve been thinking of moving out again,” Suna continues. “Getting my own place to rent somewhere not too far from here. I was thinking, when you have time, I could drag you out to go on house-hunting adventures with me?”

“Oh, sure! That sounds fun. I don’t know anything about real estate though, so don’t expect me to be much use. We don’t get people selling housing to us, but we _do_ have enough lucky charms to make a minor god dizzy, so even if you come across a bad place, I reckon you’ll be fine.”

“I’m counting on you. I’ll put together a list of places soon.” Suna can’t stop smiling. “I have to go, now. There’s something I need to finish. I’ll stop by later this week for the paperwork.”

“Don’t take too long, okay? I'm looking forward to getting started.”

“Definitely. Goodnight, Osamu.”

“Goodnight,” says Osamu, “Rintarou.”

* * *

_but you had to come along, didn’t you?_  
_rev up the crowd_  
_rewrite the rulebook_

* * *

That Saturday afternoon, Suna arrives at the Miyas’ store just in time to see an elderly couple and their middle-aged daughter step out and exchange some thanks and goodbyes with Osamu, who bows after them when they leave, polite and professional as always. When he straightens up and sees Suna, his smile changes to something even warmer, and Suna thinks he can feel it bloom from his chest, reaching to his fingers and his toes and the crown of his head.

“Three guesses what’s in the bag,” says Suna, lifting the tote-bag he’s holding. “Hint: it’s from the café.”

Osamu steps aside to let Suna in. The bell on the door chimes as always. “I need another clue. Is it mochi-ish?”

“Nope.”

“So… dorayaki?”

“Nope.”

“Castella?”

“Nope.”

Suna sets down the tote-bag and his usual messenger bag on the table in the reception area. Osamu squints at him. “Hold on, do we still get the snacks if I get it wrong?”

“Don’t get it wrong.”

“I— _what?!_ ” Osamu turns towards the backroom and hollers, “‘TSUMU! Get out here! We need your psychic powers!”

Suna bursts into laughter. Atsumu shuffles out, glaring at them.

“First: I’m not psychic. Second: what?”

“What’s inside the bag? Rintarou gave me three guess. It’s not mochi-ish, it’s not dorayaki or castella, and I don’t want to screw up the last guess. He might run off with it if I don’t get it right.”

“Oh!” Now, Atsumu seems to understand the stakes. He crouches close beside the bag and leans in to take a deep sniff, sending Suna into a fresh wave of laughter. “Hmm… it really smells like dorayaki though… but if it’s not, then… oh! It’s—”

Osamu snaps his fingers and both twins yell in perfect unison: “TAIYAKI!”

“Got it!” says Suna, and the twins cheer and slap a high-ten. He pulls the bag open to reveal a container with a dozen palm-sized fish-shaped cakes. “We got a new mini-taiyaki maker and we’ve been testing it out. The dark brown ones are chocolate with custard filling, and the plain ones have red bean filling. Aren’t they adorable?”

Atsumu starts cackling as he cradles a chocolate one in his hand. “The eyes are _huge_.”

Osamu leans in to pluck another chocolate one out of the box and drops the entire thing into his mouth. “Mmm…” he hums contentedly. “Mmrrfee.”

“Oh my _god_ , you _pig_ ,” says Atsumu, kicking out at him. He bites off the head of the fish he’s holding. “But this _is_ really good.”

“I’ll report back to my parents,” says Suna. “Try not to kill each other over these, okay?”

“No promises,” says Atsumu, and Osamu just hums in agreement. “You’re here for the paperwork to officially be an associate of ours, right? I’ll get it. Make sure ‘Samu doesn’t eat all the—”

Suna feels a jolt of adrenaline as he clears his throat and says, “Uh, actually… I was hoping for a word with Osamu first.”

The twins exchange a look. Suna watches as a lightbulb seems to switch on in Atsumu’s head, but Osamu is none the wiser.

“I’ll, uh… take these into the kitchen,” says Atsumu, picking up the container of taiyaki and starting to head out. “You two take your time.”

“If you eat them all,” Osamu calls after him, “I’m gonna give you the biggest ass-kicking of your entire life!”

“ _Get outta here already, dumbass!_ ” Atsumu barks. 

“Three of each, you hear me? Leave me three plain and three choc—”

“You ate a chocolate one already!”

“Fine! Two chocolate—”

“ _Sunaaa!_ ”

And with a grin, Suna grabs Osamu’s arm and pulls him out of the store.

“You don’t _understand_ ,” says Osamu, adjusting his cuffs after they step outside and Suna lets go. “‘Tsumu and I have to _very carefully_ establish boundaries when it comes to food.”

“And how often does that all go to shit anyway?”

“Every single time,” says Osamu, now deadpan, and Suna laughs. “I don’t know why I bother, honestly. Anyway, what did you want to talk about?”

Suna sobers up right away and his hand automatically touches the pocket of his jacket. He doesn’t answer yet. 

They walk down the street slowly and leisurely. It is neither cool nor warm outside, and the sun hasn’t yet begun to set. It feels a little like déjà vu, somehow…

_Oh._

That’s right—the weather, the time, the aimless wander down the street around the Miyas’ store. It’s so similar to the first time he had properly opened his heart to Osamu and told him everything. And he was about to do the same today.

(To breathe, to be patient, to take a risk, to fall.)

“You’re not wearing gloves,” says Suna as they walk.

“Oh… yeah.” Osamu slips his hands into his pockets. “I took them off when I said goodbye to that family who were at the store before you came over. And then we got so distracted by the taiyaki that I just forgot.”

“Do you want to go back to get them?”

Osamu smiles. “Nah, it’s okay. I don’t have anything to be scared of. I’m with you, after all.”

Suna stops walking abruptly and Osamu takes another two steps before realising and turning to look at him.

“Oh,” says Suna. 

Osamu huffs a laugh. “What?”

( _To breathe_.)

Suna thinks of all the pieces of night fabric he had brought to the Miya brothers; Osamu flinching upon touching the river stone; losing his glove at Mount Inari and Suna mending the other; how tired Osamu had looked after losing his other pair of gloves and the incident with the koto in Nara; Suna, weaving night after night after night—his slowest, most patient, and finest piece.

( _Breathe_.)

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an ordinary white pouch, and he holds it out to Osamu.

“What’s this?” Osamu asks, reaching for it. And if Suna wanted to change his mind and pull away, now was the time, this would change everything, he wouldn’t be able to go back, he couldn’t—

( _To take a risk, to fall._ )

Osamu takes hold of the pouch, bare fingers brushing against Suna’s hand for the briefest of moments, and he freezes. Suna lets go. 

“Open it,” he murmurs, and Osamu exhales softly and does.

What he pulls out are a pair of gloves made from black cotton. Weeks and weeks of night have been woven into them—patient nights, nights of stories, nights of joking together, nights of talking about anything that came to mind, nights of falling a little more in love each time. Suna has put a lot of his heart into this pair of gloves, and he knows Osamu can feel it. Osamu, who couldn’t help but wear his heart on his sleeve, as carefully-guarded as it was. Osamu, who didn’t believe in endings but believed in new beginnings instead; who believed in trying to be kind where he could; who pulled Suna from his grief and misery and gave him new things to look forward to, new things to believe in, and taught him to forgive himself and accept that some things had no blame.

“I’m not sure if the size is right,” says Suna. “I followed what I remembered from your glove I mended—after we came back from Mount Inari, remember? But if they don’t fit, just let me know. I made them with the hotter weather in mind, that’s why I used cotton for breathability. And I picked the cooler nights to weave, so they shouldn’t warm up too much if you wear them around. This is my first time making anything like this, though, so if I’ve completely messed it up, you can tell me and I’ll—”

He is cut short when Osamu grabs his wrist and pulls him into a small alleyway nearby.

“What—”

“Rin,” says Osamu. “I want to kiss you. Is that—can I kiss you?”

Suna’s heart is racing far too fast and his thoughts are ricocheting around in his head, too jumbled to untangle, too hectic to calm. But he does know, above it all, just two things: that Osamu is still holding onto him, that Suna never wants him to let go, that they feel the same way about each other, and that he absolutely wants Osamu to kiss him, and—okay, that’s more than two things, and there’s probably even more than that if he keeps this up—

“I definitely want you to kiss me,” he says.

“Okay,” says Osamu.

And he does.

He closes the gap between them in a step and it’s almost too much, too fast for Suna, but the second he feels Osamu’s lips against his own, the sense of being overwhelmed leaves him. He is calm; there is nowhere else in the world he wants to be right now. Forward, with a tilt of Osamu’s head, one hand still holding onto Suna’s wrist and the other clenched around his night fabric gloves and resting on Suna’s shoulder, slowly easing around his neck and bringing him closer. This is the most Osamu has ever touched him with his bare hands. Suna knows this won’t be the last time.

Osamu pulls away and then, little by little, lets him go, rocking back on his heels and exhaling softly. Suna can’t take his eyes off him. He doesn’t want to. Osamu looks down at the gloves he’s still holding, running his fingers over the smooth cool black cotton. He pulls them on, left first and then right, and he flexes his fingers and turns his hands over. He presses his fingertips against his lips and closes his eyes, and Suna’s heart races.

“They’re perfect,” Osamu says quietly. “And I knew you were good at weaving night, but these are _incredible_. I’ve never seen anything like them. How long did it take you to make these?”

“Exactly long enough,” says Suna. Osamu opens his eyes and gives him a bemused smile, but Suna doesn’t elaborate.

“Is this why you didn’t want to sign the paperwork just yet?” Osamu asks.

Suna looks away. “I said ages ago that I think there should be a balance in making yourself happy and making others happy. I think it’s the same with taking risks. I didn’t want to make things awkward in case you didn’t feel the same way, so I—”

Osamu gives a laugh of disbelief. “You thought I _wouldn’t_ feel the same way about you?”

“I… There was always a chance that—okay, when you put it _that_ way…”

“ _Rin_.”

“Cut me some slack!” Suna protests. “I’m not good with my feelings, you know that.”

“I’m not great with my feelings either,” says Osamu. “But I _do_ know that if it’s with you, then I want to try figuring it out. So… let’s try to find that balance together. You and me. Let’s figure things out.”

(To breathe, to be patient, to take a risk, to fall.)

“Okay,” Suna says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’d really like that.”

Osamu’s smile softens and he nods. A familiar warmth, a familiar kindness. Suna knows it well. Osamu lifts his hands again and says, “I’ll be really careful with these gloves… but what if I lose them?”

“Then I’ll just make you another pair,” Suna answers.

“And if I lose those?”

“I’ll make you another pair again.” 

“And if I lose th—”

Suna closes the distance between them again, cups Osamu’s face in his hands, and kisses him to shut him up. He can feel Osamu smile against him. Suna pulls away and he presses his forehead to Osamu’s for a moment—perhaps another prayer, of sorts.

“For as long as you need them, I’ll keep making them for you,” he says.

Osamu whispers, “Thank you.”

Suna wants to tell him the same thing. He knows he has said it through the gloves and through every interaction they’ve had together up until now, but he also has a whole world of other things he wants to say to Osamu. Maybe a lifetime wouldn’t be enough for everything written on his heart; maybe there are some things he’ll never find the words for.

That’s okay. With Osamu, he’ll figure it out. As a friend, as a love, as both. With this easy, comfortable company, they’ll figure it out together.

* * *

_what do i do_  
_with a love that won’t sit still?_

* * *

Shouldering a full bag with a box of mini castella cupcakes and two boxes of dango, Suna makes his way to the Yamashina river in Kyoto. He picks a spot by the riverbank that’s mostly hidden by low-hanging trees, sits down and makes himself comfortable on the grass, and he waits. After a few minutes, the water in the spot in front of him begins to bubble, and then Yamashina breaks the surface.

“Rintarou, Rintarou!” says Yamashina happily. “It’s been a while!”

“Hello, Yamashina-sama,” says Suna, smiling. “I came to visit and chat today. I brought lots of dango for you.”

“Excellent, excellent! Let’s start! You seem well, my dear Rintarou.”

Suna pries open a box of dango. “I am. And I have so much to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/naffnuffnice)
> 
> ☆☆☆ twitter user [@catkenmas](https://twitter.com/catkenmas) has very kindly put together a lovely Spotify playlist for this fic! You can have a listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2Ssb77Xhn9cEkjqTfQjJ47?si=zH0iFaqhS72Sfeu_-WjF6A) (on browser, or you can copy+paste the link into your Spotify app) Thank you a.m.b!!
> 
> ☆☆☆ twitter user [@impzura](https://twitter.com/impzura) drew lovely fanart for this fic! View it on [twitter](https://twitter.com/impzura/status/1297565388025233410) or [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/CEPPr1qJso4/?igshid=1tm70kr5rtr99)! Thank you so much!! 
> 
> ☆☆☆ twitter user [kur_kurroid](https://twitter.com/kur_kurroid/) animated a kintsugi bowl inspired by the one mentioned in this fic!! Check it outtt [here](https://twitter.com/kur_kurroid/status/1303918561350635520)!
> 
> ♡♡♡ I also commissioned [@painpackerrs](https://twitter.com/painpackerrs), full-time menace, to draw that scene of Suna and Oomimi touching their foreheads together, and she delivered in SPADES [right here!](https://twitter.com/painpackerrs/status/1298083769619025920) Thank you Ginny, I love it so much!! ;______;


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